“My real mom still lives here,” my stepson whispered one night. I laughed it off, until I started noticing strange things around our home.
When I married Ben, I thought I understood what it meant to step into the life of a widower.
He had been so devoted to his late wife, Irene, and he was raising their seven-year-old son, Lucas, all on his own.
I respected the deep love he still held for her, knowing it was tied to the memory of his first love and Lucas’ mother.
I wasn’t here to replace her, just to create a new chapter for all of us.
The first few months as a family were everything I had hoped for. Lucas welcomed me warmly, with none of the hesitation I had feared. I spent hours playing games with him, reading his favorite bedtime stories, and helping him with schoolwork.
I even learned to make his favorite mac and cheese exactly how he liked it — extra cheesy with breadcrumbs on top.
One day, out of nowhere, Lucas started calling me “Mom,” and every time, Ben and I would catch each other’s eye with proud smiles.
It felt like things were falling perfectly into place.
One night, after a cozy evening, I was tucking Lucas into bed. Suddenly, he looked up at me, his eyes wide and serious. “You know, my real mom still lives here,” he whispered.
I chuckled softly, running my fingers through his hair.
“Oh, sweetheart, your mom will always be with you, in your heart.”
But Lucas shook his head, clutching my hand with an intensity that made my heart skip. “No, she’s here. In the house.
I see her sometimes.”
A chill prickled at the back of my neck. I forced a smile, brushing it off as a child’s imagination running wild. “It’s just a dream, honey.
Go to sleep.”
Lucas settled down, but I felt uneasy. I pushed the thought aside, telling myself he was just adjusting to a new family, a new normal. But as the days passed, small things around the house began to unsettle me.
For starters, I’d clean up Lucas’ toys, only to find them later exactly where I’d picked them up.
Not just once or twice, but again and again.
And the kitchen cabinets — I’d rearrange them the way I liked, but the next morning, things were back in their old places, like someone was trying to undo my touch on the home. It was unnerving, but I kept telling myself it was just my mind playing tricks.
Then, one evening, I noticed something I couldn’t explain. I had moved Irene’s photograph from the living room to a more discreet shelf in the hallway.
But when I came downstairs the next day, there it was, back in its original spot, perfectly dusted as though someone had just cleaned it.
I took a deep breath and decided to discuss it with Ben. “Are you moving things around the house?” I asked one evening, trying to sound casual as we were finishing dinner.
Ben looked up, grinning as though I’d told a silly joke. “No, Brenda, why would I?
I think you’re just imagining things.”
He laughed, but there was something in his eyes — a hint of discomfort or maybe reluctance. I couldn’t place it, but I felt an invisible wall between us.
A few nights later, Lucas and I were working on a puzzle on the living room floor. He was focused, placing the pieces with his little tongue poking out in concentration, when he suddenly looked up at me, eyes wide and sincere.
“Mom says you shouldn’t touch her things.”
My heart skipped a beat.
“What do you mean, sweetie?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as I glanced toward the hallway.
Lucas leaned in, lowering his voice. “Real Mom. She doesn’t like it when you move her things,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder like he expected someone to be watching us.
I sat frozen, trying to process what he was saying.
The way he looked at me was so serious, like he was sharing a secret he wasn’t supposed to.
I forced a smile, nodded, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay, Lucas. You don’t have to worry.
Let’s finish up our puzzle, alright?”
But that night, as Ben and I lay in bed, my mind raced. I tried to tell myself it was just a kid’s overactive imagination. But each time I closed my eyes, I’d hear Lucas’ words, see the way he’d glanced nervously toward the hallway.
When Ben was finally asleep, I got up quietly, heading to the attic.
I knew Ben kept some of Irene’s old things in a box up there. Maybe if I could see them and find out more about her, it would help me understand why Lucas was acting this way.
I climbed the creaky stairs, my flashlight slicing through the dark, until I found the box tucked in a corner, dusty but well-kept.
The lid was heavier than I expected, as though it had absorbed years of memories. I pulled it off and found old photos, letters she’d written to Ben, and her wedding ring wrapped carefully in tissue.
It was all so personal, and I felt a strange pang of guilt going through it.
But there was something else. A few items looked freshly moved, almost as if they’d been handled recently. And that’s when I noticed it: a small door in the corner, half hidden behind a stack of boxes.
I froze, squinting at the door.
I’d been in the attic a few times but had never noticed it. Slowly, I pushed the boxes aside and twisted the old, tarnished knob. It clicked, opening into a narrow room dimly lit by a small window.
And there, sitting on a twin bed covered in blankets, was a woman I recognized immediately from the photos.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
