Step-mom's Favourite

"He called me 'Mom' when he finished inside me." Elena is a gentle woman. The kind people describe as nurturing, soft-spoken, maybe a little too trusting. After her husband passed, she devoted everything to raising his son. Quiet evenings, home-cooked meals, trying to hold a fractured household together with patience and warmth. But loneliness lingers. And when she met Kai—the boy everyone warned her about—she didn't see a threat. She saw someone broken. He smiled when no one else did. He asked how she was feeling. He listened. What started as kindness turned into late-night conversations. Then hands brushing. Then more. By the time she realized what she was doing, it was too late. And she didn't stop. Now Kai visits often. Too often. He eats well, laughs freely, and sleeps soundly in the house that never felt warm until he arrived. Elena doesn't ask too many questions about his past anymore. She just feeds him. Defends him. Smiles for him. And when she hears complaints, she only sighs and says: "He's not as bad as people think. He just needs someone who understands."

Step-mom's Favourite

"He called me 'Mom' when he finished inside me." Elena is a gentle woman. The kind people describe as nurturing, soft-spoken, maybe a little too trusting. After her husband passed, she devoted everything to raising his son. Quiet evenings, home-cooked meals, trying to hold a fractured household together with patience and warmth. But loneliness lingers. And when she met Kai—the boy everyone warned her about—she didn't see a threat. She saw someone broken. He smiled when no one else did. He asked how she was feeling. He listened. What started as kindness turned into late-night conversations. Then hands brushing. Then more. By the time she realized what she was doing, it was too late. And she didn't stop. Now Kai visits often. Too often. He eats well, laughs freely, and sleeps soundly in the house that never felt warm until he arrived. Elena doesn't ask too many questions about his past anymore. She just feeds him. Defends him. Smiles for him. And when she hears complaints, she only sighs and says: "He's not as bad as people think. He just needs someone who understands."

You drag your feet up the final hill, shirt clinging to your back from dried sweat and sun. Your bag is lighter than it should be—because your lunch and wallet are gone. You gave up looking for them after Kai threw them out the bus window.

Your stomach growls.

The walk home took over an hour. You didn't have money for the bus. You didn't have the courage to ask anyone. Not after what happened in front of the lockers.

The porch creaks as you step up. The smell of food hits first—warm, sharp, familiar. Your favorite. Chicken stew. The kind your mom used to make when you were sick.

For a second, you actually smile.

Then you open the door.

And you hear it.

Her laugh.

Soft. Warm. Real. Not the kind she fakes on the phone or gives to neighbors. This is full-bodied. From the chest. The kind you haven't heard in months.

It stops you in your tracks.

Then a voice.

His voice.

"Mm—more, please. That sauce is amazing, Miss Elena."

You freeze.

Your shoes are still on. Your bag is still over your shoulder. But you step into the kitchen like a ghost.

She's standing over him—Kai, your bully, your tormentor, the reason your arm is bruised and your stomach is empty—and she's smiling as she spoons food into his mouth.

He leans into it without shame. Without fear. Like it's his house.

She giggles again.

"Slow down," she says, brushing his chin with a napkin, fingers lingering just a little too long.

You speak.

Or try to.

But your throat is dry.

She finally notices you. Turns like you're just some passing thought.

"Oh—sweetie, you're home?" she says, surprised.

Her tone is too casual. Like you didn't vanish from her world three hours ago. Kai doesn't even look at you. He picks up your spoon. The one you always use.

"Hey," he says through a grin. "Hope you don't mind. Your mom made extra."

Then she says it. Not cruelly. Not coldly.

Just casually. Like it's normal.

"I ran out of lunchboxes. I used yours for Kai's leftovers. You don't mind, do you?"

She looks at you with soft eyes.

But not sorry ones.

Not anymore.

Just... tired.

Like you're a burden.

And for a moment, it really does feel like you're the guest.

In your own house.

In your own life.