“My real mom lives here,” my stepson muttered one night. I laughed it off until I noticed unusual occurrences in our home.
The memory of his first love and Lucas’ mother shaped his great affection for her, which I appreciated. I wasn’t here to replace her, only create.
My first few months as a family were perfect. Lucas greeted me kindly without hesitation. I spent hours with him playing games, reading bedtime tales, and helping with schooling.
I even learned to prepare his favorite mac and cheese with breadcrumbs to his specifications.
Lucas suddenly called me “Mom,” and Ben and I would beam proudly every time. Everything seemed to fit.
One night, I put Lucas to bed after a lovely evening. He suddenly stared at me with large, serious eyes. “You know, my real mom still lives here,” he muttered.
Running my fingers through his hair, I laughed gently. “Oh, sweetheart, your mom will always be in your heart.”
Lucas shook his head and grabbed my hand with a heart-stopping ferocity. “She’s here. At home. Sometimes I see her.”
I felt a cold behind my neck. I forced a smile, dismissing it as childish imagination. Honey, it’s a dream. Go to sleep.”
Lucas calmed, but I was uneasy. I ignored it, thinking he was just adjusting to a new household and normal. But as time went on, house details started to bother me.
First, I’d clean up Lucas’ toys only to discover them where I first picked them up. Multiple times.
I rearranged the kitchen cupboards, but the next morning they were back to their original positions, as if someone was trying to undo my alterations. It was unsettling, but I told myself my mind was playing games.
One evening, I discovered something inexplicable. I moved Irene’s photo from the living room to a hallway shelf for additional privacy. I came downstairs the next day to find it back in its place, perfectly dusted like someone had cleaned it.
Breathing deeply, I decided to tell Ben. “Do you move things around the house?” I casually asked after dinner one night.
Ben looked up, smirking like I made a joke. “No, Brenda, why? You’re probably imagining things.”
He laughed, but his eyes showed a tinge of unease or reluctance. Not sure what it was, but I felt a wall between us.
Lucas and I solved a riddle on the living room floor a few nights later. While arranging the pieces with his tongue protruding, he glanced up at me with wide, honest eyes.
“Mom says don’t touch her stuff.”
My heart jumped. What do you mean, sweetie? As I looked down the corridor, I asked, trying to be calm.
