I didn’t even realize at first. I was in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes, half-listening to the sounds drifting from the living room—cartoons playing, blocks tumbling, the occasional squeal of laughter. It was ordinary, comforting, the soundtrack of my life. Until I heard it.
“Mom, look at me!” my son shouted, his little voice bright with excitement.
I smiled, ready to answer, but then froze. Because I hadn’t said anything yet. And when I peeked around the corner, he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at her—our babysitter.
The word “Mom” rolled off his tongue so naturally, like it belonged to her. And worse? She didn’t correct him. She laughed, ruffled his hair, and said, “Good job, buddy.”
My hands tightened around the dish towel until my knuckles turned white.
Backstory: I’d hired Lisa six months earlier. She was young, energetic, and my son adored her from the start. With my long shifts at the hospital, I needed someone reliable, someone who could handle late nights when I couldn’t be there. She was perfect—at least, I thought so. She brought snacks, taught him songs, even texted me pictures of his drawings. I told myself it was worth every dollar, that he was happy.
But hearing him call her “Mom” felt like a knife twisting in my chest. That was my name. The one I’d earned through sleepless nights, scraped knees, and lullabies whispered at 3 a.m. How dare she let him say it?
I tried to brush it off at first. Kids get confused, I told myself. He knows who I am. Still, the next morning, when I kissed him goodbye before work, his little voice whispered, “Don’t worry, Mom. Lisa will be here soon.”
The smile I forced nearly broke my face.
Days turned into weeks, and the tension grew. He started drawing pictures—stick figures of himself, Lisa, and…a woman with long hair. When I asked who it was, he said, “That’s my mommy!” Except it wasn’t me.
I confronted Lisa one evening after I came home early. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, building towers with him. He saw me and shouted, “Mom!” But again, it wasn’t me he was looking at.
“Lisa,” I said sharply, pulling her aside. “Why does he keep calling you that?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh—I thought you knew. It just slipped out one day. I corrected him at first, but…he kept saying it, and I didn’t want to upset him.”
“Upset him?” My voice cracked. “That’s my title. You don’t get to take that from me.”
She held up her hands. “I’m not trying to replace you. He just…sees me as another mom figure. I love him, you know? Like he’s my own.”
That hit harder than a slap. “He’s not your own,” I snapped. “He’s mine.”
The look on her face made me pause. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t shame. It was something else. Something protective.
That night, after she left, I tried to talk to my son. “Sweetheart,” I said gently, brushing his hair back, “you know I’m your mommy, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah. But I have two moms now.”
Two moms.
The words echoed in my head until I couldn’t stand it.
The next day, I checked her social media. I scrolled through photos of her smiling with kids, none of them hers. But then I saw a post from years ago—her holding a baby, tears in her eyes. The caption read: I’ll never forget you, no matter what.
A chill ran through me.
I dug deeper, and that’s when I found it. An old news article. Lisa had given up a baby for adoption at sixteen.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
She hadn’t just been babysitting my son. She had been trying to fill a void. My son wasn’t just a job—he was her second chance.
I didn’t know whether to feel pity or rage.
That evening, I sat her down. “I know about your past,” I said softly. “And I’m sorry for what you went through. But you cannot confuse my son like this. He has one mother. Me.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I never meant to. I just…when he called me that, it felt like—like I mattered again. Like I hadn’t lost everything.”
For a moment, my anger cracked. I saw the broken girl behind the babysitter, the ache she was trying to soothe. But then I thought of my son, his tiny voice calling her “Mom,” and my chest hardened again.
“You need to go,” I said firmly.
She nodded, wiping her eyes, and packed her things. My son cried when she left, clinging to her legs, begging her to stay. Watching that nearly killed me.
It’s been weeks since. He still asks about her sometimes, still slips and calls me by her name. Each time, it cuts deep, but I remind myself: I am his mother. Not her.
Still, late at night, when the house is quiet, I can’t help but wonder—did I do the right thing? Or did I just take away the only other person who loved him like I did?
Final Thought
Being a mother isn’t just a word. It’s a bond, a claim, a promise. But when someone else slips into that role, even by accident, it shakes you to your core. I learned that protecting my title sometimes means protecting my child from the love that threatens to blur the lines.
