“My real mom lives here,” my stepson muttered one night. I laughed it off—until I started noticing strange things happening in our home.
Lucas adored his late mother deeply, and I respected that. I never wanted to replace her—only to build something new with him and Ben.
The first few months as a family were wonderful. Lucas welcomed me with open arms. We played games, read bedtime stories, and I helped him with schoolwork.
I even learned to cook his favorite mac and cheese—extra crispy breadcrumbs, just how he liked it.
Before long, Lucas started calling me “Mom,” and each time, Ben and I would share a proud smile. It felt like everything was falling into place.
One night, after a warm, joyful evening, I tucked Lucas into bed. He stared at me, eyes wide and serious.
“You know,” he whispered, “my real mom still lives here.”
I smiled gently and ran my fingers through his hair. “Oh, sweetheart, your mom will always live in your heart.”
But Lucas shook his head and gripped my hand tightly, his intensity sending a chill through me.
“No. She’s here. In the house. Sometimes… I see her.”
A cold sensation crept up the back of my neck. I tried to brush it off with a soft laugh.
“Honey, that sounds like a dream. Try to get some sleep.”
He calmed down, but something in me remained unsettled. I told myself he was just adjusting to a new family, a new life—but then the little things began.
I’d tidy up Lucas’ toys, only to find them exactly where I’d picked them up—again and again.
I rearranged the kitchen cupboards, only to find them back in their original layout the next morning, as if someone was deliberately undoing my changes. It was eerie, but I convinced myself I was overthinking.
Then something happened I couldn’t ignore.
I moved Irene’s photo from the living room to a shelf in the hallway, hoping for a bit more privacy in our shared space. The next morning, it was back in the living room—spotless, as if someone had lovingly cleaned it.
I took a deep breath and brought it up with Ben after dinner.
“Hey… do you ever move things around the house?” I asked casually.
Ben looked up, amused. “No, Brenda. Why?”
“You’re probably just imagining things,” he added with a laugh—but something in his eyes flickered. A hint of hesitation, or maybe discomfort. I couldn’t tell, but I felt him pull away, even just a little.
A few nights later, Lucas and I were on the living room floor, solving a puzzle. As he concentrated, tongue poking out slightly, he suddenly looked up and said quietly:
“Mom says don’t touch her stuff.”
My heart pounded. I tried to stay calm, my voice even.
“What do you mean, sweetie?” I asked, eyes drifting down the hallway.