The Secret in the Attic
When I married Ben, I believed I understood the life I was stepping into. He was a devoted widower raising his seven-year-old son, Lucas, alone. I knew the memory of his late wife, Irene, would always linger in their lives, and I had no intention of replacing her. My role was to build something new with them, a fresh chapter woven with love and understanding.
For a while, everything felt perfect. Lucas welcomed me with open arms, warming to me far faster than I had anticipated. We played games, read bedtime stories, and shared small but meaningful moments. I even learned to make his favorite mac and cheese—extra creamy with a golden breadcrumb crust, just the way he liked it.
Then, one evening, something changed.
Lucas looked up at me as I tucked him into bed, his voice barely above a whisper.
“My real mom still lives here.”
A shiver crept down my spine. I forced a gentle smile, running my fingers through his hair.
“Oh, sweetheart, your mom will always be with you, in your heart.”
But Lucas shook his head, his grip tightening on my hand.
“No, she’s here. In the house. I see her sometimes.”
I swallowed the uneasy feeling rising in my chest. Children have vivid imaginations, I reminded myself. It was just his way of processing loss.
Yet, as the days passed, strange things began happening.
At first, it was small, almost dismissible. I’d tidy up Lucas’s toys, only to find them back in their original place minutes later. The kitchen cabinets, which I had carefully reorganized, mysteriously shifted back overnight.
I chalked it up to forgetfulness—maybe Ben was moving things without realizing, or perhaps Lucas was playing and didn’t mention it.
Then, something happened that I couldn’t explain.
I had moved Irene’s framed photo from the living room to a quieter spot in the hallway. The next morning, it was back in its original place, spotless—as if someone had carefully wiped away the dust.
That night, as we ate dinner, I casually asked, “Ben, have you been moving things around?”
He glanced at me, his expression unreadable before he forced a chuckle. “No, Brenda. Maybe you just forgot.”
But something in his eyes told me he wasn’t as unconcerned as he pretended to be.
A few nights later, as Lucas and I worked on a puzzle, he suddenly froze, his wide eyes locking onto mine.
“Mommy said you shouldn’t touch her things.”
My stomach clenched. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
Lucas leaned in, lowering his voice as if he were revealing a dangerous secret.
“My real mommy. She doesn’t like when you change her things.”
His gaze flickered toward the hallway, his small body tense.
I squeezed his hand, forcing a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Lucas. You don’t need to worry.”
But that night, as I lay awake beside Ben, unease gnawed at me. Something wasn’t right.
I got up quietly and climbed to the attic, where Ben kept boxes of Irene’s old belongings. Maybe there was something—something I had missed—that would explain Lucas’s strange behavior.
As I pushed aside the dusty containers, my flashlight landed on something I had never noticed before.
A small, hidden door.
I hesitated. I had been to the attic before, but I had never seen this door.
My pulse quickened as I turned the rusty knob. It creaked open, revealing a narrow room lit by a single window.
And sitting on a small bed, wrapped in blankets, was a woman.
I gasped, my body stiff with shock.
She looked up at me, startled—but there was no fear in her eyes.
She looked… expectant.
And I recognized her instantly from the old photographs.
Emily.
My throat tightened. “You… you’re Ben’s sister, aren’t you?”
Her gaze softened as she nodded slowly. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You weren’t supposed to find out this way.”
My heart pounded. “Ben never told me you were here. How long have you been… living in the attic?”
Emily looked away, fingers twisting in the fabric of her blanket. “Three years.”
Three years.
A rush of cold disbelief washed over me. “And Lucas? Have you been speaking to him?”
She nodded. “He misses his mother. I tell him stories about her—to comfort him.” She hesitated before adding, “I thought it would help.”
I took a shaky breath. “But he thinks you are her.”
Emily lowered her gaze, saying nothing.
I turned and rushed down the stairs, my mind spinning.
Ben was in the living room, watching TV. He looked up at me, his expression immediately shifting to concern.
“Brenda?”
I swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me about Emily?”
The color drained from his face.
“Brenda, I…” He exhaled heavily, rubbing his forehead. “I didn’t know how.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “She’s been living in the attic. She’s been talking to Lucas. He thinks his mother is still alive because of her!”
Ben ran a hand down his face, looking exhausted. “After Irene died, Emily wasn’t the same. She refused help. I thought… keeping her here was better than sending her away.”
I stared at him, my heart hammering. “You should have told me.”
He nodded, shame flickering in his eyes. “You’re right. This has gone too far. We need to do something.”
The next morning, Ben sat down with Lucas and gently told him the truth.
Lucas was silent for a long time before whispering, “But… she looked like Mommy.”
Ben hugged him tightly. “I know, buddy. But your real mom is in your heart. And we need to help Aunt Emily.”
Later that day, Ben did what he should have done years ago—he got Emily the help she needed.
She cried, resisted, but in the end, she agreed.
And once she left, the house felt lighter. The eerie presence that had loomed over us was gone.
Lucas struggled at first, asking about Emily and wondering if she would come back. But over time, he began to understand.
And Ben and I?
Our relationship had been tested in ways I never expected. But in the end, it made us stronger.
Because family isn’t just about the past.
It’s about facing every truth—and moving forward, together.