When I married Ben—a gentle, grieving widower with a 5-year-old son named Lucas—I thought I knew what to expect.
The first few months were magical. Lucas smiled more, laughed louder, and even started calling me “Mom.”
I felt like I was finally building something real.
But then, one night, as I tucked him into bed, Lucas looked at me with innocent eyes and whispered:
“My real mom still lives here.”
I laughed nervously. “You mean in your heart?”
But he just stared at the ceiling, silent.
Then things started happening.
Toys I had packed away showed up back in the playroom.
Cabinets I had closed were found wide open.
And the photo of Ben’s late wife?
It kept returning to the mantle—no matter how many times I moved it.
Ben? He swore I was imagining it all.
But Lucas… Lucas knew something.
One evening, as we were playing, he leaned in and whispered:
“Mom… you shouldn’t touch her things.”
That’s when I knew…
Something—or someone—was still in that house.
