“Mommy, will you cry when I go to the beach with Daddy and my other mom?” We were driving home from preschool when my 4-year-old looked out the window and asked me that question. I blinked. “Your… what?” “My other mom. Mom Lizzie says you’re the evil mom and she’s kind. And soon we’re going to the beach.”
I forced a smile. “Who’s Mom Lizzie, sweetheart?”
“She lives in our house. You know her, Mommy. Don’t pretend!”
My blood ran cold. She lives in our house? It wasn’t possible. We had no one living with us. Just us three. My mind raced, searching for an explanation. A babysitter? An imaginary friend? No, she said “Mom Lizzie.” And “my other mom.” My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I tried to sound casual. “Sweetie, we don’t have anyone else living with us, do we? Who is Lizzie?”
She shook her head, oblivious to the terror in my voice. “Yes, we do! You just don’t play with her much. She helps Daddy with my bath. And she puts me to bed when you’re busy.” When I’m busy? What busy? A sick, nauseating feeling coiled in my stomach.
The rest of the drive home was a blur of forced smiles and internal screaming. I pulled into the driveway, my hands shaking so badly I almost scraped the curb. As she skipped inside, I lingered in the car, trying to breathe. Lizzie. Lizzie. The name echoed in my head, a menacing hum. There was a Lizzie. My husband’s cousin, who lived three states away. We saw her maybe once a year. It couldn’t be her. Unless… no. NO. This was some childish fantasy. A game she’d picked up from a friend. Yet, the way she said it. So matter-of-fact. “She lives in our house.” “Mom Lizzie says you’re the evil mom.” EVIL MOM. That cut like a knife.
He came home an hour later, whistling, oblivious. “Hey honey, tough day?” He kissed my cheek. His casual demeanor felt like a slap. I followed him to the kitchen, my voice a tight whisper. “We need to talk.” He turned, a half-smile on his face. “Everything okay?”
“No, nothing is okay. Our daughter told me she has another mom. A Mom Lizzie. And she said Mom Lizzie lives in our house.” His smile faltered. His eyes darted away, just for a second, but it was enough. A tell. My breath hitched.
“What? What are you talking about? She’s making things up, you know kids.” He tried to laugh, but it was forced. “No,” I insisted, my voice rising. “She said Mom Lizzie says I’m the evil mom. She said Lizzie puts her to bed.” I grabbed his arm, my nails digging into his skin. “Who is Lizzie? And why has our daughter been talking about her like this?”
He pulled away, running a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s… it’s complicated. She’s been confused lately. I just… I didn’t want to worry you.” Worry me? “Worry me about what?”
He avoided my gaze. “Lizzie… she’s been helping out a bit. With the house. With our daughter.” My jaw clenched. “Helping out? What kind of helping out involves our daughter calling her ‘Mom Lizzie’ and me the ‘evil mom’?” My voice was shaking now, bordering on a scream.
He finally looked at me, his eyes full of something I couldn’t quite decipher. Guilt? Resignation? “You’ve been… unwell. Since the baby. And after the second miscarriage… you haven’t been yourself. You sleep a lot. You forget things.” My head spun. Unwell? Forget things? “So, what, you hired a nanny and didn’t tell me? And she’s brainwashing our child?”
He took a deep breath. “No. Not a nanny.” He paused, looking around the kitchen as if searching for an escape. “Lizzie is… my wife. My other wife. She’s been living in the guest house. For a while now. When you… when you started getting sick again. When you couldn’t remember whole days sometimes. She moved in to help. To take care of our daughter. She’s been a mother to her for almost a year now. You just… you never noticed. Or you’d forget.”
My world went silent. Sick? Unwell? Forget? The words echoed, then shattered into a million pieces. The gaps in my memory. The exhaustion that felt like a physical weight. The times I’d woken up feeling disoriented, not knowing what day it was. The faint smell of another perfume in the house that I’d dismissed as my own, or a lingering scent from a visitor. The feeling of being constantly tired, yet never quite rested. The slight confusion when my daughter would mention something I didn’t remember doing with her. I always thought it was just the stress of everything.
IT WASN’T STRESS.
IT WAS HER. LIVING HERE. MY HUSBAND’S OTHER WIFE. RAISING MY CHILD. WHILE I, THE REAL MOTHER, WAS TOO SICK, TOO BROKEN TO EVEN SEE IT. HE HAD REPLACED ME. RIGHT UNDER MY OWN ROOF.
The beach trip. The innocent question. “Mommy, will you cry when I go to the beach with Daddy and my other mom?” She wasn’t asking about a playdate. She was asking if I’d miss her, knowing full well she had another mother who would be there. She was asking if I’d even notice she was gone. My own illness. My own pain. He had used it against me. And I had been blind. I had been erased.
