Chapter 3: The Boy Who Calls Me Mom

I picked up my fork and started wolfing down the food. Honestly, everything was my favorite.

I ate like I hadn’t seen real food in weeks—maybe I hadn’t. Who knew?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the kid again, peeking in from the hallway.

He was half-hidden behind the doorframe, eyes wide and uncertain. His bunny dangled from one hand, and he rocked on his heels, clearly torn between wanting to come in and wanting to run away.

Thinking this might actually be my son, my eyes lit up and I waved him over. "Hey, buddy, come here."

I tried to keep my voice light and warm, forcing a smile. My heart pounded as I waited to see if he’d trust me.

He hesitated, then shuffled over to the bed, looking nervous.

His steps were slow and careful, like he was approaching a wild animal. Was I really that scary? He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, only glancing up at me for a split second before looking away again.

Why does this kid seem so scared of me?

My chest tightened. Was I really that bad of a mom? I tried to recall anything—any memory, any feeling—but there was nothing. Just this little boy, fragile and unsure.

Could it be that I married some rich guy and became a stepmom?

I studied his face, searching for any resemblance. His nose was a little like mine, but his eyes were different—maybe his dad’s? I wondered if he was my biological son or if I’d married into this family. Either way, he needed me now.

I scratched my head and tried to sound gentle. "Hey there, what’s your name? How old are you?"

I forced a soft smile, hoping to put him at ease. My voice was shaky, but I tried to hide it.

The boy’s round face crumpled with hurt. He looked like he couldn’t believe his mom had forgotten his name.

His eyes filled with tears, and he hugged his bunny closer. For a second, I thought he might cry. The guilt hit me like a punch to the gut.

"Mom, my name is Lucas. My nickname’s Louie. I’m four and a half."

He said it so quietly, like he was afraid I’d be angry. His voice trembled, and he sniffled, looking up at me with a mixture of hope and fear.

Lucas? Looks like I really didn’t end up with my old crush.

I mouthed his name, trying to commit it to memory. Lucas—Louie. It suited him. I wondered what kind of mom I’d been, if he was this nervous just talking to me.

I continued, "Louie, let me quiz you. What’s your dad’s name?"

I tried to sound playful, but my heart was pounding. Maybe he’d give me the answer I needed.

"My dad is—"

He started to answer, but his words were cut off by a sudden interruption.

"Louie! There you are. Time to go downstairs for your lesson. Don’t bother Mrs. Evans while she’s resting."

The housekeeper suddenly appeared at the door, cutting him off.

She swept in, her voice brisk but not unkind. She gave me an apologetic smile, but there was a wariness in her eyes. Louie looked down, shuffling his feet.

"Sorry, Mrs. Evans, I wasn’t watching Louie. I’ll take him downstairs now."

She hurried over and led him away.

She gently took Louie’s hand, steering him toward the door. He glanced back at me, eyes wide and pleading, before disappearing down the hall. The housekeeper closed the door softly behind them.

I was still confused, so I just nodded.

My mind was a jumble of questions and half-formed theories. I felt like I was trapped in a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Ever since I woke up, the housekeeper’s attitude had been odd, like I was some kind of monster.

She never quite met my eyes, always spoke in a careful, measured tone. It was as if she was afraid of setting me off. The realization made my stomach twist. Had I really been that awful?

Since nobody would tell me my husband’s name, I figured I’d have to play detective.

I wandered the house, opening drawers and peeking behind doors. Every room was immaculate, decorated in soft neutrals and expensive-looking furniture. But there were few personal touches—no shoes by the door, no jackets on the hooks, no sign of another adult living here.

The closet was filled with my clothes—dresses, jeans, a few business suits—but nothing that looked like it belonged to a man. The nightstands held only my things: a half-finished novel, a bottle of lavender lotion, a sleep mask. It was as if I lived alone, except for the child.

Maybe this was one of those husbands who just wires money home and never shows up?

I remembered stories from high school about absentee dads who were always "on business." Was that my life now? I felt a pang of loneliness, even though I barely remembered the man I was supposed to be married to.

When I walked out, I realized I was in a two-story house with a big front yard and a winding driveway.

The house was beautiful—white siding, black shutters, a porch swing swaying in the breeze. The lawn was perfectly manicured, dotted with wildflowers. A shiny SUV sat in the driveway, and a basketball hoop stood near the garage. It looked like the American dream, the kind of place you’d see in a Hallmark movie.