“My real mom lives here,” my stepson whispered one night, his voice low and serious. At first, I brushed it off with a chuckle—until strange things began happening around our home.
Ben, my husband, had loved his late wife, Irene, deeply. She was not only his first love but the mother of his son, Lucas. I understood their bond and respected it. I wasn’t trying to take Irene’s place. I just hoped to help write a new chapter in their lives.
The early days of our new family felt like a dream. Lucas welcomed me without hesitation. We played board games, read bedtime stories, and I helped him with schoolwork. I even learned to make his favorite mac and cheese—extra cheesy, with breadcrumbs on top, just the way he liked it.
Then one day, out of the blue, Lucas started calling me “Mom.” Every time he did, Ben and I shared quiet smiles of joy. It felt like everything was finally falling into place.
But then came that night. After a cozy evening, I tucked Lucas into bed. As I pulled the blanket up to his chin, he looked at me with wide, solemn eyes and whispered, “You know, my real mom still lives here.”
I laughed softly, brushing his hair back. “Oh, sweetheart, your mom will always live in your heart.”
But Lucas shook his head firmly, gripping my hand with unexpected urgency. “No,” he said. “She’s here. In the house. Sometimes I see her.”
A chill ran down my spine.
I smiled, trying to stay calm. “That’s just a dream, honey. Try to get some sleep.”
He relaxed, but I didn’t. I told myself it was just a child’s imagination adjusting to a new reality. Still, over the following days, small things began to gnaw at me.
I’d clean up Lucas’s toys, only to find them back where they’d originally been—over and over again.
I rearranged the kitchen cabinets to my liking, but by morning, everything was back in its original place—as though someone had deliberately undone my changes.
Then came the moment that left no room for rationalizing. I moved Irene’s framed photo from the living room to a discreet spot on a hallway shelf. The next morning, I came down to find it back in its original place—perfectly clean, like someone had gently wiped it.
That evening after dinner, I worked up the courage to ask Ben, keeping my tone casual. “Have you been moving things around the house?”
He looked up and chuckled, like I’d told a silly joke. “No, Brenda. Why? Are things moving on their own now?” he teased.
But behind his smile, I saw something else. A flicker of hesitation… maybe discomfort. I couldn’t be sure, but something unspoken hung in the air between us.
A few nights later, Lucas and I were sitting on the floor, piecing together a puzzle. His tongue peeked out in concentration as he worked, then suddenly, he looked up at me with those same wide, serious eyes.
“Mom says you shouldn’t touch her stuff.”
My heart skipped a beat.
I forced a steady tone. “What do you mean, sweetie?” I asked, glancing down the hallway instinctively.
Lucas leaned closer and whispered, “Real Mom. She doesn’t like when you move her things.”
He said it with such conviction, like he was sharing a secret he wasn’t supposed to. His eyes darted over his shoulder, like he was afraid someone might be listening.
I sat frozen, unsure of what to say or think.
“Okay, Lucas,” I said gently, squeezing his hand. “Let’s finish the puzzle, alright?”
But that night, I couldn’t sleep. The puzzle wasn’t just on the floor—it was in my mind, and I was beginning to wonder if I was just imagining things… or if Lucas truly saw someone I couldn’t.