Zeke, my kid, is six. His scream could wake the dead, his vivid imagination, and his passion for gummy worms. Tantrums are to be expected with children, I understand, but nothing could have prepared me for what transpired last Saturday.
While we were in Walmart getting groceries, I turned down a toy dinosaur. One word—“no”—and he went crazy. I mean full-body meltdown, throwing himself on the floor, screaming things like “Don’t take me!” and “I want to go back to my REAL mom!”
Which… certainly. Sounds terrible for a passerby unfamiliar with it.
I attempted to remain composed. Scooped him up, lugged him screaming and kicking toward the door like a sack of potatoes. He was screaming, thrashing, even clawing at the sky. It didn’t seem to me how terrible it was until two staff members stopped the door and told me to wait.
Then I noticed the outside flashing lights.
Hand on his belt, an officer came in asking for ID. I dropped my wallet; my hands were trembling that much. By then, of course, Zeke had gone completely quiet, merely hiccuping tiny cries into my shoulder like though butter wouldn’t melt in his lips.
I had to tell everyone the complete story. Show images of Zeke and me; even get his birth certificate from my inbox. Eyes were on folks. One lady was recording.
The officer finally apologized, but not before questioning me on why my son would first say such a thing.
The thing is… Zeke has been saying that sort of thing more often recently. “You’re not my real mom,” or “I don’t belong here.” Initially, I believed it to be only fantasy.
But now I am beginning to question where he obtains it.
Zeke crawled into bed without another word when we arrived home. Usually following an event like that, he would either ask for ice cream or attempt to hug me off. What about this time? Not a thing. It felt more weighty than normal, as though something deeper was happening.
Sitting next to him, I pushed his hair back from his face. “Hey buddy, can we discuss today?”
Rolling over and grasping his beloved pet dog—a worn-out old creature called Patches—he murmured, “Do you hate me?”
I felt my heart drop. Certainly not, darling. Why would you believe that?
His speech was quiet, almost inaudible. “Because I’m bad.”
Those three sentences struck me like a gut punch. What was the source of all this? Of course, Zeke was six and had times of rebellion, but he wasn’t terrible. Hearing him say such things, however, made me doubt all. Was I as a parent doing enough? Had I overlooked any vital indication?
I spoke to him emphatically, “I don’t think you’re bad.” Not even a little. Sometimes, though, when people are afraid or angry, they say things they don’t mean. Are you now afraid?
He nodded, tears gathering in his large brown eyes. I don’t want to be removed.
Taken off? What did that even signify? I pressed softly, wanting responses but scared to push too hard. Who do you believe could take you away?
He paused before saying, “The other mom.”
I felt a shiver down my back. What other mother?
The one who occasionally speaks to me.
I was unable to sleep that night. The term “the other mom” rang in my ears like a disturbing nursery song. Who or what was Zeke referring to? Was this some intricate game created out of loneliness? Or was something sinister at work?
Dr. Patel, Zeke’s physician, I contacted the next morning. She patiently heard me describe Zeke’s enigmatic admission and the Walmart event. Her counsel caught me off guard: “It seems like he could be using narrative to process feelings. Children frequently create stories to convey emotions they cannot verbalize. Given the severity of his comments, nevertheless, it could be useful to consult a child psychologist.
I set an appointment against my better judgment. I made the decision to look deeper in the interim. During supper that night, I quietly questioned Zeke, “Tell me more about the other mom. How does she seem?
He replied after carefully chewing on a carrot stick. She is tall and has long hair. Her outfits are dazzling. Occasionally she shares tales of distant locations with me.
Where does she originate? I inquired.
Zeke said flatly, “She claims to live in a castle.” She says she lives in a castle, Zeke said matter-of-factly. “But I left, so she misses me.
This talk merely increased my uncertainty. Was Zeke struggling with something unfinished or was this only fantasy? Driven to understand, I contacted Mrs. Winslow, Zeke’s kindergarten teacher. Perhaps she had seen shifts in his school conduct.
Mrs. Winslow asked me to come to her class the next day. She gave me a pile of drawings Zeke had done lately as soon as I got there. Most had women with flowing hair, stars, and castles. One image stood out: it showed me holding Zeke’s hand as the enigmatic “other mom” stood off to the side observing us.
Mrs. Winslow noted gently, “It’s almost as if he’s trying to reconcile two worlds.” Have you thought about whether he could remember before he moved in with you?
Her remarks left me speechless. At three, Zeke had been adopted. Struggling with addiction, his birth mother finally gave up custody. Always honest about his adoption, we presented it as a loving decision intended to improve his life. Might these fairy stories be his method of assembling shards from his early childhood?
During our visit a week later, the psychologist validated my doubts. Dr. Harper said that occasionally adopted youngsters build fantasy characters to fill voids in their knowledge of identity. For Zeke, the “other mom” probably reflected his need to relate to his origins—not so much his biological mother but rather the concept of belonging somewhere else.
Dr. Harper recommended including Zeke in events honoring his past, such as creating meals from his birth culture or reading literature about adoption. She underlined the need of open discussion and said that interest in his past did not lessen his relationship with me.
Equipped with this knowledge, I made a choice to act. That weekend, I sat him down for a heart-to-heart and prepared Zeke’s favourite cookies. Remember how we discussed your adoption earlier?
He nodded warily.
“I suppose the ‘other mom’ you mention could be your means of questioning your narrative. And that’s fine! Everyone has a tale; yours is quite unique.
He beamed. “So she’s genuine?”
I answered cautiously, “In a sense.” “She’s your imagination, but she lets you know stuff about yourself.” Like how courageous you are to begin a new chapter with me.
Zeke grinned honestly for the first time in weeks. “Does that imply I can still go to the castle occasionally?”
“Of course,” I told him. “So long as you vow to take me along.”
Zeke appeared lighter from that day forward. The tantrums grew less often; imaginative play involving both me and the “other mom” took their place. We read bedtime stories about heroes returning home and constructed castles out of blocks.
Zeke flourished as months went by. One night, while we snuggled on the couch, he looked at me and asked, “Mom? The other mom is no longer required.
Why is that? I said, hiding my astonishment.
“Since you’re already my genuine mother.”
Tears stung my eyes. You are my actual son. Always.
In that split second, I understood something significant: being a parent is not about knowing everything. It’s about developing, learning, and listening with your kid. Zeke showed me that love is created by trust, patience, and shared experiences; it transcends genetics.
Should you have liked this tale, pass it on to those who could gain from its message. Let’s remind one another that every family has its own particular path and share kindness. Remember to like and comment below; your opinions would be much appreciated!
