Every Sunday at exactly five o’clock, Josh returned from his mother’s house. Each time, he walked through the front door, kicked off his shoes, and silently vanished into his room. The cheerful, curious ten-year-old I had grown so close to seemed to disappear after those visits, replaced by a withdrawn, irritable version of himself. I noticed it immediately, but I didn’t want to cross a line. As his stepmother, I was never quite sure how far I was allowed to go, even though Josh had always been affectionate and kind with me.
One evening, after another tense Sunday return, I glanced over at my husband, Patrick, as we chopped vegetables for dinner. “Do you think he’s okay?” I asked.
“He’s probably fine,” Patrick said, trying to sound reassuring. “Linda can be a lot sometimes. She probably just gave him another lecture.”
“But I lecture him too,” I pointed out. “And he laughs about it with me. This feels… different.”
“If you’re really that worried, talk to him,” Patrick suggested. “I’ll check in with him after dinner too.”
Josh had changed so much since he’d moved in with us. In the beginning, he was full of life—always ready to tell stories or help me cook. Now, every time he came back from Linda’s, we had to slowly coax him out of his shell. We made his favorite foods, played games, even planned special movie nights. Nothing seemed to lift his spirits.
After dinner, Patrick tried to talk to him. I lingered in the kitchen, pretending to clean, but I listened carefully. “It’s just… exhausting being there,” Josh finally admitted. “But I know it’s important to spend time with Mom.”
Patrick offered to switch to alternate weekends if it would help, but Josh just went quiet and excused himself to bed. On his way out, he surprised me with a tight hug. “Good night, Liv,” he whispered, and I could feel the heaviness in his little heart.
The truth came out the following weekend. Patrick had gone grocery shopping, and I was sitting alone on the couch, waiting for Josh to arrive. After a string of neighborhood thefts, we had installed a new security system synced to our TV. Whenever there was motion at the front door, the screen automatically switched to the live feed. I was sipping tea when the view changed—and there they were, Josh and Linda, standing on the porch.
“Here are your cookies,” Linda said, handing him a container. “And don’t forget what you’re supposed to do.”
Josh hesitated. “Mom, I don’t want to.”
“You have to tell them the truth,” he added desperately. “I hate lying to Dad. If he knew you were making me steal from the house every week, he’d be furious!”
My blood ran cold.
Josh continued, pleading with her. “Liv’s going to notice her stuff is missing. The pads, the lotion… Mom, I can’t keep doing this.”
I felt sick. I hadn’t imagined it—my personal things had been disappearing. And now, I knew why.
Linda’s voice cut through, sharp and unapologetic. “So what? They have money. I told you—I need one of Olivia’s necklaces or rings next time. If I pawn one, I can pay off some debt.”
She even instructed him to take the emergency cash Patrick kept stashed away. “Your dad keeps some bills in his sock drawer. Helping your mother is an emergency.”
I was in shock, but more than that—I was heartbroken. Josh had been suffering under the weight of his mother’s manipulation, torn between guilt and loyalty. I didn’t hesitate. I marched to the front door and flung it open.
“Linda,” I said, firmly.
Josh flinched and moved toward me for a hug.
“I heard everything,” I told her. Her eyes darted nervously.
Josh clung to me, his breath shaky. “Josh, sweetheart, go to your room for a little while,” I said gently. Once he was gone, I turned back to Linda. “What is going on?”
Under the weight of my questions—and the threat of calling Patrick—Linda broke down. She was drowning in debt and desperate. She didn’t even bother denying it.
“I’ll help you,” I told her. “I’ll give you money to get back on your feet. But you are never to involve Josh again. He stays with us until you can be a mother without using him to lie and steal. Do you understand?”
“He’s my son,” she muttered bitterly.
“No,” I replied. “He’s a child. And you’re using him. If this doesn’t stop, I will press charges.”
Her face changed when she realized I wasn’t bluffing. She nodded, mumbled a thank-you, and walked away.
As I stepped back inside, unsure how I’d explain everything to Patrick, Josh came running toward me, tears streaming down his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “I didn’t want to steal.”
“I know,” I whispered, holding him tightly. “It’s not your fault. We’re going to fix this. I promise.”