After the divorce, my mom set me up again. He was an engineer. Good-looking, well-off, and out of the country most of the year. The only catch? He had a son who wasn’t quite… right. My mom asked if I minded being a stepmom. I just laughed. A ready-made kid is a lot easier than nine months of pregnancy. Isn't the government encouraging people to have children anyway? I’ll take him. 1 Michael’s work was demanding, so our first meeting was at a café beneath his office building. He was dressed in a pair of light-gray work coveralls, his features sharp and handsome, his smile disarmingly warm. I was floored. I had no idea my mom had access to this caliber of blind date material. Over coffee, he gave me the rundown of his life. Thirty-five, a six-figure salary as a global support engineer for a heavy machinery company, constantly traveling for overseas assignments. When we were done, he made it clear he was more than happy with me, but then he brought up the delicate subject. “I’m not sure if your mother mentioned it, but I have a five-year-old son. He’s in kindergarten.” I nodded. I get it, teenagers can be rebellious, but I couldn’t wrap my head around how a five-year-old could be “not right.” Was Michael violent? Did he have some kind of weird fetish? My eyes scanned him again, from head to toe. His hands were clenched into tight fists, a sign of his nerves. He offered me a devastatingly earnest, almost goofy smile. He seemed harmless enough. “Can I ask why you and your ex-wife divorced?” Michael went quiet for a moment. “We didn't divorce. I’m a widower. She died from an amniotic fluid embolism during childbirth.” I froze. That was a detail my mom had conveniently left out. “When my son was born, I was flying all over the world for work. He lived with his maternal grandparents. I brought him home to live with me when he was four, and that’s when he…” He trailed off, rubbing his hands together awkwardly as he waited for my verdict. I thought it over, then finally said, “I have a three-year-old daughter. She has to live with me. I don’t know if you’re okay with that.” 2 My daughter, Buddy, is a Golden Retriever I rescued from a back-alley breeder. I spent twelve thousand dollars on his surgeries, which led to a six-month cold war with my ex-husband, followed by our divorce. Michael stared at me, dumbfounded, for a solid three seconds. The tension in his shoulders visibly melted the moment I showed him a picture of Buddy on my phone. Aside from my commitment to Buddy, Michael knew the basics about me. Thirty, a freelance writer who basically lives like a hermit, pulling in a modest income that my ex found embarrassing. Since the divorce, I’d been living with my parents, and my mom never let me forget it. “So… can I get your number? We could, you know, keep talking.” I was satisfied with Michael. He needed a wife to take care of his son, and I needed his income to support my stay-at-home lifestyle. Plus, I’m a total sucker for a pretty face. After we exchanged numbers, I immediately sent him my half of the bill for the coffee. Michael glanced at the payment notification on his phone, his brow furrowing. “If… if you think I’m decent enough,” he began, hesitating, “maybe I could introduce you to my son sometime?” “He’s really not… off all the time. When he’s quiet, he’s actually pretty adorable.” I didn’t say anything. He took a deep breath, playing his final card. “I’m serious about you. If you’re willing, I’ll give you a fifty-thousand-dollar nest egg to start our life, and my paycheck is yours and your daughter’s every month.” “How about tomorrow, then?” I said. “I have to take Buddy to the vet for a check-up. They can meet afterward.” We set a time. I picked up my dog from the groomer’s, went home, and gave my mom the short version. I still couldn’t understand why Michael tensed up every time he mentioned his son. A five-year-old boy… even if he was a bit of a handful, how “not right” could he be? “Mom, have you ever met his son?” My mom scratched her head. “Oh, sure. He seemed like a nice boy. Looks just like his dad, sweet-faced. Just… quiet. Doesn’t really engage with anyone.” “He’s five,” she added with a shrug. “What are you so afraid of? It’s not like he can burn the house down.” 3 The next day, after Buddy’s check-up, I made a special trip to the toy store and a bakery, loading up on action figures and a box of egg tarts. Michael picked me up, and it was only then that I learned he owned a sprawling penthouse apartment in the city center. Because of his crazy work schedule, his son spent most of his time there alone. “Patrick’s grandparents aren’t in the best of health these days, so they can’t look after him anymore,” he explained. “I have a nanny who comes by regularly to cook for him.” “Patrick? That’s a nice name.” “His mother picked it.” I fell silent. Michael parked in the underground garage, took the bags from my hands, and led me toward the elevator. “Patrick’s still young. I know it might be a lot to ask, but he’ll need you to look after him.” “I came back yesterday and cleaned the whole place up…” His words died on his lips. He pushed the door open to reveal a living room that looked like a warzone. Patrick was sitting alone on the sofa, methodically stuffing a small cake into his mouth. “Patrick!” Michael’s face flushed with anger. Patrick stared blankly at Buddy for a second before scrambling off the couch and bolting into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. Michael looked exhausted, apologizing profusely. The door was locked tight. No matter what Michael said, Patrick wouldn’t open it. It would take time for the nanny to come and clean up, so Michael and I sat on the sofa, making small talk. “He claims he can hear cats and dogs talking,” Michael said, his voice low. “He also said a dog found a new mommy for him.” “But don’t worry,” he added quickly. “I’ve taken him to a child psychologist. They said it’s nothing that will affect his daily life.” Since I talk to Buddy all the time, I didn't find Patrick's claims particularly strange. He was only five. His dad had just brought home a strange woman. Acting out to claim his territory seemed perfectly normal. Just as I was trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between us, the door to his room creaked open, just a crack. His eyes met mine for a fleeting second before darting away. The moment he saw the nanny arrive at the front door, he slammed his own door shut again. He was afraid of her. 4 I asked the nanny to just take out the trash and leave for the day. Then, I walked over to Patrick’s room and knocked softly. “The nanny’s gone. When you’re hungry, you can come out and eat.” A long moment passed. Finally, the door opened. He peeked his head out, checking to make sure she was really gone before cautiously stepping into the living room. Buddy, his tongue lolling out, wagged his tail excitedly and trotted circles around the little boy. Patrick looked uncomfortable. He tugged at his slightly-too-small t-shirt, then shyly reached out and patted Buddy’s head. He quickly snatched an egg tart from the shopping bag and stuffed it into his pocket. The nanny hadn't prepared lunch, so we ordered from a restaurant nearby and ate together. “Is she my mom?” Patrick, sitting across from me, asked the question out of the blue. Buddy, who was lying at his feet, let out two sharp barks. Patrick looked up, his wide, hopeful eyes shifting between me and Michael. His eyelashes were long, and his cheeks were still plump with baby fat, flushed a rosy pink. He looked like a delicious little strawberry shortcake. Michael was right. Patrick was actually quite adorable. “Yes,” Michael said softly. “Would you like to live with her?” “You’re a liar, Daddy!” Patrick’s eyes filled with tears, but he spoke with a stubborn defiance. “My mommy is dead!” The mood at the table instantly soured. I smiled, peeled a shrimp, and placed it on his plate. “I’m not your mommy. You can call me Auntie Clara. Of course, if you want to, you can call me Mom.” “Like the nanny?” he shot back, a deceptively innocent, almost cruel, smile on his face. “Is that what you are?” “No. I’ll be living with you. I’ll be the one to discipline you for your dad. The nanny won’t spank you, but I will.” His eyes welled up with tears again. 5 The very next afternoon, Michael and I were at the courthouse getting our marriage license. He was in a rush, quickly helping me move my things into his apartment. A couple of weeks ago, he had received an assignment that would take him overseas for an extended period. He’d delayed his departure because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Patrick alone for so long. “I’ll be gone for more than half a year this time. I’m counting on you to take care of Patrick. If anything comes up, just message me. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” “Patrick can be a handful at school. You might have to take some heat from the teachers for me.” “If he misbehaves and makes you angry, you have my permission to discipline him. Just don’t hurt him, okay?” “And… video call me if you miss me.” Michael recited his laundry list of instructions as he stood in the security line at the airport. I had suggested Patrick skip a day of school to see him off, but the boy had stubbornly refused. Michael’s figure grew smaller and smaller, eventually swallowed by the bustling airport crowd. On the way back, I took a detour to the supermarket. Ever since I’d noticed Patrick’s fear of the nanny, I’d had Michael let her go. With no one else to cook, the job fell to me. Day one of motherhood. To make a good first impression, I drove to pick him up from school. But when I got there, I saw him lingering by the school gates with a group of other kids. They were jumping around him, singing some kind of song. What was going on? A party at the school gate? It wasn't his birthday. My patience wore thin. I got out of the car and plucked Patrick from the center of the circle. “Sorry, guys. Patrick’s mom wants him home for dinner, so he can’t play right now.” I buckled him into the back seat. The seatbelt was loose, completely useless. Note to self: buy a booster seat. Buddy sniffed around him, licking his hand from time to time and nudging his chin with his head. “What do you want for dinner tonight?” Silence. Right. I’d almost forgotten. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about his new stepmom. I changed the subject. “I fired the nanny.” I watched his reflection in the rearview mirror. His head shot up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Then, completely out of context, he answered my first question. “I want barbecue ribs, and honey-glazed ribs, and…” A cold sweat prickled my back. I had clearly overestimated my culinary skills. In the end, we went out for dinner. 6 After dinner, I fed Buddy, and Patrick quietly washed his hands and went to his room to look at his picture books. What was so “not right” about this kid? He was perfectly normal. I happily settled in for a quiet evening, opening my laptop to write. At nine o’clock, Patrick was still engrossed in a Sudoku puzzle, with no intention of going to bed. I took the book away and told him it was time for a bath. He clung to the doorframe with all his might, shouting, “I can wash myself! I can do it!” I pried his stubborn little fingers away. “Can you really get yourself clean? You’re starting to smell a little ripe.” He let go, completely stunned. His cheeks puffed out in indignation, making him look like an angry little pufferfish. “That’s a lie! I take a bath every single day!” I ended up having to physically drag him into the bathroom. Patrick’s bathroom had a large tub with a low-set faucet, which made it easy for him to draw his own bath. I stripped him down, tossed him in, and started scrubbing him down like a potato. When I got to his arm, he cried out in pain. At first, I thought he was just being dramatic, but when I looked up, his eyes were brimming with tears. That’s when I saw it—a large, ugly bruise on his right forearm. My expression hardened. “How did you get this?” He refused to answer. I gave his bottom a light swat. “Patrick, I’m talking to you!” He burst into tears, wailing like a teakettle. “When I don’t listen, the nanny pinches me,” he sobbed. “She says I’m the kid nobody wanted.” I froze. Suddenly, his question from the restaurant—“Like the nanny?”—slammed into me. It wasn't a challenge. It was a test. He was terrified that I would hurt him, too. Coming back to my senses, I softened my voice. I wrapped him in a towel and lifted him out of the tub. “How long has she been hurting you? Why didn’t you tell your dad?” Frustration simmered inside me as I pulled a set of pajamas over his head. “You have a mouth, don’t you? Why are you suddenly silent when your dad’s around?” “I don’t get to see Daddy very often,” he mumbled. “By the time I see him, it doesn’t hurt anymore.” I pulled the hood of his pajamas up over his head. “Doesn’t hurt? Then who was that screaming in the bathtub just now?” “From now on, if anyone ever lays a hand on you, you hit them back. Hard. You understand? I’ve got your back. I won’t tell your dad.” I tucked him into bed and turned to his closet. What was this? All his clothes were a size too small. “I don’t have any new clothes.” Patrick’s voice was muffled from under the covers, only his eyes visible. “The nanny took all the new clothes Daddy bought for me.” Damn it. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I lay awake until midnight, tossing and turning, vowing to make that woman pay. 7 I didn’t even have to go looking for trouble. It found me. The school called. Patrick had gotten into a fight. I floored it, racing to the kindergarten. When I arrived, the former nanny was splayed on the floor of the principal’s office, putting on a world-class performance of weeping and wailing. I pulled Patrick behind me, crouching down to check him from head to toe. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when I saw the only injury was a small scratch on his cheek from another kid’s fingernail. “You’re this little monster’s mother, are you? Look what he did to my grandson!” I bent down and pointed at the other boy, whose face was a mess of bruises and swelling. “Did you do this to him?” Patrick wouldn’t speak. “Patrick! Head up. Answer me!” He obediently lifted his head, his hands fidgeting nervously in front of him. “I did it,” he whispered. “He called me a stray with no mom. I got angry, so I hit him.” I ruffled his hair. “Good job. You did the right thing.” The teacher looked at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head. “Mrs. Miller, children will be children, but you’re an adult. You should know better.” The nanny shrieked, “An apology? My grandson looks like this, and you think an apology is enough? You’re going to pay for this!” “Patrick did nothing wrong,” I said, turning to face the spectacle on the floor. “And last I checked, I’m not dead. So how exactly does that make him a child with no mother?” I gave the nanny a pointed look. “You know, I was just about to come looking for you. I noticed some cash missing from a drawer at home the other day.” She flinched, but quickly puffed out her chest. “What are you talking about? That’s slander!” “It’s fine if you don’t admit it. The security cameras saw everything.” She scrambled to her feet, shooting me a venomous glare. “I don’t care about that! Your son beat up my grandson, and you’re going to pay. If you don’t, I’ll make you regret it!” A triumphant, vicious smirk spread across her face. “I know your husband isn’t home.” I clenched my fists, ready to throw down. The teacher grabbed my wrist. “Don’t be rash. Just apologize and this will all be over. His father is not someone you want to cross.” Just as she said that, a deep voice boomed from the doorway. “Who? Who’s been bullying my son?”
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