Christmas morning came to a halt the instant my five-year-old tore open a gift and shouted that his “other mom” had kept her promise. My husband turned ghostly pale. He knew exactly who our son was talking about—and the longer he hesitated, the clearer it became that this wasn’t some innocent confusion.
My husband and I had been together for six years. We shared one child, a five-year-old boy named Simon.
Our life wasn’t perfect, but it felt steady. Predictable. Safe.
There were small fractures, of course—every marriage has them. Moments when my husband seemed distracted or emotionally elsewhere. I never labeled them as warning signs.
I should have.
I especially should have paid closer attention after what I now think of as the babysitter incident earlier that year.
We’d been drifting, so we made an effort to reconnect by scheduling weekly date nights. One of Mike’s coworkers recommended a babysitter—a college-aged woman—and at first, everything seemed fine. Our evenings out helped. Simon liked her. Things felt lighter.Then one day, Mike told me we needed to let her go.
“I think she has a crush on me,” he said. “Whenever we’re alone, she makes comments.”
“What kind of comments?” I asked.
He shrugged. “About my suit. My cologne. Nothing extreme, just… uncomfortable.”
So we fired her.
At the time, I felt reassured. He’d come to me directly. It felt like proof we were still honest with each other—still a team. I ignored the quiet voice in my head telling me there was more he wasn’t saying.
I convinced myself it was jealousy. That I was overthinking things.
I wasn’t cautious. I was naïve.
I assumed the difficult phase was behind us. I relaxed. I let routine convince me everything was fine.
Christmas morning shattered that illusion.
It started out normally—wrapping paper everywhere, coffee cooling on the table, Simon vibrating with that once-a-year excitement. All the gifts under the tree were ones we’d chosen together… or so I believed.
Mike handed Simon a medium-sized box. “This one’s from Santa,” he said.
I smiled. We always saved one special present for that moment.
Simon ripped it open—and froze.
Then his face lit up like he’d won the lottery.
Inside was a high-end collector model car. Simon had wanted one for months, but Mike and I had agreed it was far too expensive for a five-year-old.
Simon clutched it to his chest and shouted, thrilled and loud, “YES! The other mom kept her promise! I knew she would!”
The room went cold.
“The… other mom?”
I forced a smile for Simon’s sake.
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! She said if I behaved really well, she’d make sure I got it for Christmas.”
Slowly, I turned toward my husband.
He wasn’t smiling.
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