My son started school today. My heart was a drum against my ribs as I watched him, backpack almost bigger than he was, wobble towards the brightly colored door. So tiny. So brave. I’d held his hand all the way up the path, a death grip on his small fingers, trying to memorize the feel of them before they slipped away. Every single parent around us was doing the same – beaming, snapping photos, choking back tears. I was no different. I knelt, adjusting his collar, pressing a final, lingering kiss to his hair. He giggled, pulling away, eager. “Be good, my love,” I whispered, my voice thick. “Mama will be back before you know it.” He grinned, a gap-toothed, dazzling smile that always melted me, and bounded inside. I took a few more shaky photos, one last wave as he turned, then a deep breath. This was it. The first step into his own world. I felt a bittersweet ache, a mix of pride and a profound sense of loss.
As I slowly backed out of the bustling classroom, trying to catch one last glimpse of him settling in, I saw him at a small table, already focused on a pile of building blocks. He’s going to be just fine. I felt a small, teary smile bloom on my face.
I reached the doorframe, my hand hovering, ready to close it softly, to finally let go.
And then I heard it.
“Jamie, honey, can you help me with these crayons?” The teacher’s voice was gentle, warm.
I froze. Jamie? My son’s name is Lucas. My heart gave a sudden, hard jerk. I glanced back, confused, scanning the other kids. Maybe she was talking to another child?
But no. My son—Lucas—turned his head. He looked at the teacher, a small, obliging smile on his face, and without a moment’s hesitation, pushed his chair back. He walked right to her, little hand reaching for the box of crayons she held out.
No correction. No puzzled look. He answered. He responded. To a name that wasn’t his.
My blood ran cold. This isn’t right. I stepped back into the room, my smile gone, replaced by a tight knot of confusion and a prickle of unease. The noise of the other parents saying their goodbyes seemed to fade, replaced by a dull roar in my ears.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, even as it trembled. “I think there’s been a mistake. My son, Lucas, he just responded to ‘Jamie.’ His name is Lucas.” I gestured towards him. He was now happily sorting red crayons into a bin.
The teacher turned, her friendly smile faltering slightly. She looked at me, then at the boy, then back at me. A strange look crossed her face. Not understanding. Not apology. Something… else.
“Oh, no, Mrs… I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, her brow furrowing. “This is Jamie. Jamie Miller. His mother dropped him off just a few minutes ago. He’s been registered under that name since March.”
My breath caught. Jamie Miller? My maiden name was Miller, but I hadn’t used it in years. My husband’s surname was different. And registered since March? It was August! We’d just enrolled him a few weeks ago for the first time, after moving to this district. My stomach plummeted.
“No, you don’t understand,” I insisted, my voice rising in a panicked whisper. “That is my son! Lucas! I am his mother! And I just dropped him off. He’s never been here before. We moved here last month. I filled out all the forms myself.”
The teacher’s face hardened, her confusion turning to something wary. She glanced around nervously at the remaining parents. “Madam, I assure you, this boy is Jamie. His mother, a lovely woman, just left. Perhaps you’re in the wrong classroom? Or… there’s been a mix-up with another child?”
My gaze snapped back to my son. Lucas. Jamie. He was still sorting crayons, completely oblivious, or so it seemed. But then, as if sensing the tension, he looked up. His eyes, usually so full of innocent wonder, flickered. He looked from the teacher to me, and for a split second, I saw something in them. Not confusion. Not fear.
It was recognition. And then… something else. A secret. A lie.
My mind was racing. ALL CAPS. THIS IS MY SON. THIS IS MY SON! HE IS LUCAS!
Just then, the classroom door opened again. A woman walked in, looking flustered but smiling warmly at the teacher. “Oh, good, Jamie’s okay,” she said, her voice light. “I just forgot his comfort blanket, he can’t sleep without it tonight.” She held up a small, familiar blue blanket.
My world tilted. My blood went cold. That blanket. It was his comfort blanket. The one I bought him. The one he had in his bed every night.
My eyes met hers. Her hair was lighter than mine, her eyes a shade bluer, but the shape of her face, the curve of her smile… it was strikingly similar. Almost like a sister. Or… a ghost.
And then I saw the way my son looked at her. He didn’t just smile. He lit up.
The woman looked at me, her smile fading as she sensed the charged air. “Oh, hello,” she said, a polite inquiry in her voice.
I couldn’t speak. My breath was shallow, ragged. My entire body was shaking. The pieces, the shattered, horrific pieces, were clicking into place with a sickening finality. The double enrollment. The different name. The other mother.
Because I knew her. And I knew why she looked so familiar. It wasn’t because she was related to me. It was because I’d seen her before, many times. In photos. On our mantelpiece. Next to my husband.
She was his sister. My sister-in-law. My husband’s older sister, who I’d been told lived on the other side of the country.
And my son, Lucas, was not just Lucas.
He was Jamie too. He had two lives.
And for the last five years, I had been the other woman.
