Replaced By His First Love: My Son Wants A New Mommy

Emily

The clock on the wall ticks. I check my phone for the twentieth time. No texts. No replies to the messages I’d sent to Malcom hours ago. And even worse, no missed calls. My chest feels tight, a familiar ache that has become my constant companion since the day Jason was born.

I already called the hospital. The receptionist’s voice had been flat, dripping with the boredom of someone who hasn't spent their evening imagining their child in a ditch.

She told me no seven-year-old boy named Jason had been admitted. I should feel relieved, but the anxiety only shifts, twisting into a different kind of pain.

I know where he is. He’s with Malcom. But I still can’t shake the unease. Maybe it’s because a part of me knew that if Malcom was "out," Monica would be the one holding the map.

My son was spending time with his father's ex.

I release yet another sigh, the sound disappearing into the vast, empty silence of the house.

I catch my reflection in the darkened window of the kitchen. I look worn out. My hair is pulled back in a messy knot, stray strands framing a face that looks sallow and drained under the harsh fluorescent lights. I don't recognize the woman staring back at me. I look at my hands—unpolished.

This has become my look for the past few years. Tired. Gray. Invisible.

The dinner I spent two hours preparing sits on the table, cold and untouched. The steam has long since vanished, leaving the specialized broth—the one I brewed specifically for Jason’s sensitive stomach—looking like a stagnant, oily pool.

Where was my family?

Then, I hear it. The crunch of gravel in the driveway. The sound of high-pitched giggling followed by Malcom’s deep, effortless rumble of laughter.

They’re home.

I force a smile onto my face, trying to swallow the lump of resentment in my throat. I push the door open just as they walk in, the cool night air rushing past them like a breath of fresh life I wasn't invited to share.

"Finally. Jason," I say, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to sound calm. "How are you? How’s your head? Do you feel dizzy?"

I reach out to brush the hair from his forehead, wanting to feel his skin, to check for the tell-tale heat of a recurring fever. Jason flinches away from my touch as if I’m something unpleasant.

"We had so much fun with Monica, Mom!" Jason beams, his eyes bright in a way they never are when he’s sitting across from me at the dinner table. "She took us to the park and she let me ride the big bike. We went on a mini hike and I even ate pizza..."

"Pizza?" The word feels like a lead to my stomach. "Jason, you know you can't eat that. Your stomach—the doctor said the inflammation—"

"I made dinner," I interrupt myself, gesturing toward the table with a hand that won't