We arrived at Mom’s house with arms full of birthday gifts, ready to surprise her and celebrate. But when her husband opened the door and leaned in with a hushed, “You shouldn’t be here,” a chill ran through me. Something was clearly wrong.
On the surface, Rick—Mom’s new husband—seemed like a good match. Polite, reliable, always doting on her. But there was always something about him that didn’t sit right with me. The way he meticulously locked every door. How he always seemed to know where everyone was at all times.
So when he greeted us like that, it felt like confirmation: my instincts had been right all along.
“I don’t trust Rick,” I told my brother Noah earlier that day while we sat in the car outside Barnes & Noble. “There’s just… something off.”
Noah gave me the usual eye roll, though I could tell he was considering my words. “You’ve been suspicious of him for years, Hannah. Maybe he’s just socially awkward.”
“Being awkward doesn’t explain why he knows Mom’s every move—like down to the minute. Or why he needs to know where we are after every visit. Or why he checks every lock three times before going to bed.”
Noah sighed, finally conceding, “Yeah… that is kinda creepy.” He pulled out the collectible toy he bought for Mom—one of her favorite characters. “Still, she seems happy, right? That counts for something.”
I wanted to agree. After Dad passed when I was 16, Mom had been alone for years. She deserved someone who cared for her, someone who made her laugh and brought her tea. Rick did all those things. But there were other signs—subtle ones—that made me uneasy.
Like the time he brought up a private conversation Noah and I had while he wasn’t even home.
“Remember when we were talking about my interview last month?” I reminded Noah. “Rick brought it up the next morning, asking how it went. But he wasn’t even there when we talked about it.”
Noah looked uneasy. “Maybe Mom told him?”
“She wasn’t home either. Book club. She got back late.”
We sat quietly, the weight of that detail settling between us. I held the novel I bought for Mom—a signed copy of her favorite author’s latest book—and wondered again if I was overthinking everything.
“Maybe he’s just being cautious,” Noah offered. “Trying to look out for her.”
“Or maybe he’s isolating her,” I said. “Have you noticed she doesn’t go anywhere alone anymore? She used to love her Saturday morning farmers market trips. Now Rick’s always with her.”
Noah shook his head. “You’re reading too much into this. Mom’s smart. She’d speak up if something was wrong.”
But would she?
Mom was always the type to smooth things over, to protect us from worry. Even when Dad was dying, she acted like everything was under control. And when we’d cautiously brought up Rick before, she just brushed it off with a laugh.
“He’s just being thoughtful,” she said. “You two worry too much.”
But standing there on her doorstep with Rick blocking the way and warning us not to come in, the unease I’d felt for years crystallized into something sharper.
This wasn’t just about being cautious. This felt like a warning.