When my stepson whispered, “My real mom still lives here,” I thought it was just a child’s imagination. But soon, oddities in our home made me question everything.
When I married Ben, I knew stepping into the life of a widower would be complex. His late wife, Irene, had been the love of his life, and their seven-year-old son, Lucas, was his world. I was there to help build a new chapter, not erase the old one. The transition seemed smooth—Lucas called me “Mom” and welcomed me warmly, filling our days with joy. But one night, as I tucked him in, he looked at me with wide, serious eyes and whispered, “My real mom is still here.” I laughed nervously, brushing it off as a dream, but unease crept in.
Soon, strange things began happening. Toys I put away reappeared in their old spots, kitchen cabinets were rearranged, and Irene’s photo, which I had discreetly moved, kept finding its way back to the living room. Ben dismissed my concerns with a laugh, but his unease betrayed him.
One evening, as Lucas and I worked on a puzzle, he said, “Mom says you shouldn’t move her things.” My heart sank. “What do you mean, sweetie?” I asked gently. He whispered, “Real Mom. She gets upset when you change things.” The seriousness in his voice chilled me.
