When I married Ben, a kind-hearted widower raising his young son Lucas, I believed I understood the life I was entering. I knew his late wife, Irene, had been deeply cherished. I never tried to take her place—only to help build something new while honoring the memory she left behind.
In those early days, our little family felt like a gift. Lucas warmed to me quickly. He laughed at my silly jokes, helped me bake cookies, and one evening, even called me “Mom.” Ben and I exchanged teary smiles, feeling the bond between us grow stronger.
Everything seemed perfect—until one night, Lucas looked up at me and said quietly, “My real mom still lives here.” I smiled gently, offering comforting words about her always being in his heart. But he shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I see her sometimes. She’s in the house.”
At first, I assumed it was just a child’s way of holding on to someone he missed dearly. But then, strange things began to happen. Toys I had put away would be out again. Cabinets I had reorganized were mysteriously returned to their original arrangement. A framed photo of Irene, which I had moved to a more private shelf, kept reappearing in the living room—spotless and precisely placed.
Then came the moment that truly unsettled me. Lucas looked up and said, “Mom says you shouldn’t touch her things.”
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