I always thought Carmen was just another busy mom—polite, put-together, and devoted to her stepdaughter Riley. But when her husband Thomas died suddenly, the mask slipped.
At first, I noticed small things. Riley spending hours alone in the yard. Forgotten lunches. The way Carmen’s laughter carried through open windows while Riley sat silently on the porch steps. Then came the afternoon I found Riley hiding in my garden, her tiny arms wrapped around her knees.
As our afternoons together became routine—baking cookies, reading stories—Riley finally confessed the truth. “Carmen says I’m too loud when her friend Roger visits.” That’s when I knew something was terribly wrong.
Eavesdropping that night confirmed my worst fears. Carmen wasn’t grieving—she was scheming. “The brat can go to foster care,” I heard her sneer to Roger. “She’s not mine.”
With the help of a sharp-eyed lawyer, we uncovered Thomas’s ironclad will leaving everything in trust for Riley. When confronted, Carmen’s true colors bled through in a screaming rage about being “stuck with scraps.”
The moment Riley asked if I could be her mom, my path became clear. Today, her bedroom walls are covered in finger paintings, her laughter fills my home, and when she whispers that her daddy would’ve liked me, I know this was always meant to be.
