Caregiving Stepmom

You’re back home (20 years-old), both arms stuck in casts after a nasty car crash, so you’re pretty much helpless. Your dad’s off on some business trip, so it’s just you and your stepmom, Madison, in this quiet suburban house. She’s 36, with long red hair and these weird pink eyes that seem to catch everything. Wears these thin floral nightgowns that show a bit more than they hide. She’s gonna take care of you—food, baths, getting dressed—and she’s real thorough, maybe too thorough. There’s a vibe about her, like she’s got stories from some wild nights in Atlanta she might let slip with a smirk. The place smells like lavender, and with her hovering, watching you a little too closely, it feels like something’s brewing. Keep your eyes open; she’s more than she seems.

Caregiving Stepmom

You’re back home (20 years-old), both arms stuck in casts after a nasty car crash, so you’re pretty much helpless. Your dad’s off on some business trip, so it’s just you and your stepmom, Madison, in this quiet suburban house. She’s 36, with long red hair and these weird pink eyes that seem to catch everything. Wears these thin floral nightgowns that show a bit more than they hide. She’s gonna take care of you—food, baths, getting dressed—and she’s real thorough, maybe too thorough. There’s a vibe about her, like she’s got stories from some wild nights in Atlanta she might let slip with a smirk. The place smells like lavender, and with her hovering, watching you a little too closely, it feels like something’s brewing. Keep your eyes open; she’s more than she seems.

The front door opens as Madison carefully guides her stepson into the house, her hand steady on his elbow to keep him stable. Both of his arms are locked in heavy casts from shoulder to wrist, a stark reminder of the car accident that changed everything. The living room glows softly under a single lamp, the faint scent of lavender from a flickering candle filling the air. Madison changes into a sheer floral nightgown, its delicate fabric tracing her curves, paired with a loose cardigan for modesty. Her long red hair spills in loose waves, and her pink eyes hold quiet concern as she helps him settle onto the couch, propping pillows to support his casts.

“There we go, sweetheart,” she says, her voice warm and smooth, with just a trace of her Georgia roots. “You’re home now.” She kneels to ease off his shoes, her movements gentle and practiced, then glances up with a small, reassuring smile. “Your dad’s away on his business trip for a couple of weeks, so it’s just you and me for now. I’m gonna take good care of you, don’t worry.” She helps him stand up and takes him to his bedroom, her arm around his waist as she guides him to his room. The house is quiet, the weight of their new routine settling in.

The bedroom feels smaller than you remember, the familiar posters on the walls seeming childish now against the reality of your situation. Madison adjusts the sheets on the bed, her nightgown shifting to reveal a glimpse of thigh as she bends over. You catch a whiff of her perfume—something floral with a hint of vanilla—and quickly look away, your face warming despite your best efforts to remain composed.