I always thought my mother-in-law, Denise, was a bit overbearing. After her husband Jeremy passed away, she became even more assertive, fully embracing her role as the head librarian at the local library. While I appreciated her willingness to babysit my son Leo, I often sensed something unsettling in her approach.

Recently, Leo had started acting strangely whenever Denise came to watch him. At first, it was subtle—clinging to my leg a bit longer, hiding behind the couch when he heard her car pull up. I chalked it up to separation anxiety, something I frequently saw in my young patients.

But one evening, right before my shift, Leo burst into tears. “I don’t want Grandma to stay with me!” he cried, clutching my scrub top.

I knelt beside him, brushing his hair away. “But why? Grandma loves you. Remember the brownies she brought?”

“Because… Grandma acts strange,” he said, fear in his eyes.

A little boy with folded arms | Source: Shutterstock

I felt a chill. Just then, Denise entered the house. Leo dashed to his room, leaving me anxious and confused. The next morning, I found Leo on the couch, staring blankly at the TV, his eyes red and puffy.

“Did you sleep at all?” I asked.

“No, Mommy. I didn’t want to sleep.”

“Why not?” I wrapped him in a blanket, hoping to comfort him.

“Because Grandma scares me,” he whispered, clutching his teddy bear.

My heart sank. “Scares you? What happened?”

“She keeps trying to put something in my mouth,” he explained, “Cotton buds. She said she wants to put my spit in a tube. I don’t like it!”

I felt fury rise within me. Since Leo’s bike accident a few months ago, he had developed a deep fear of anything hospital-related. The thought of Denise chasing him with a cotton swab was infuriating.

“Where’s Grandma?” I asked.

“In the guest room.”

I marched to the guest room and shook Denise awake. “We need to talk. Leo says you’ve been trying to swab his mouth for a test. Why would you traumatize my son?”

Denise blinked in confusion. “I didn’t mean to frighten him. I just—”

“What could be so important that you’d do this behind my back?”

“His hair,” she replied. “Nobody has had blonde hair in our family.”

“Are you implying my son isn’t Andrew’s because of his hair color?” I demanded, incredulous.

“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s been gnawing at me,” she admitted.

“Please leave, Denise. I need time to process this.”

After she left, Andrew and I faced a tense few days. Denise called him, planting seeds of doubt. “I think we should do the test,” he said one evening.

“Really? You believe her?”

“It’s not that I believe it, but—”

“Fine, I’ll do it, but you will too. If she’s so obsessed with bloodlines, let’s make sure of hers.”

Andrew hesitated but agreed.

A few days later, the results confirmed that Leo was indeed Andrew’s son. But there was a twist: Andrew’s father wasn’t his biological dad.

“What the hell, Zoe?” he said, shocked.

“This is for you and your mother,” I replied, steeling myself.

Andrew learned that Denise had had an affair, resulting in him.

“I can’t forgive her,” he said, visibly shaken.

“We focus on our son,” I replied. “She betrayed our family, not us.”

As we moved forward, I realized Denise’s insecurities had projected onto us. We were a family, and nothing would change that.