“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.” 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.