My Son Gets Another Mother

The Scars She Hid From The World

REGINA MCBRIDE

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab." My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle. When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine. They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber. I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone. At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on.

Modern Revenge Scheming

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The body of my sister, Annabelle, was found brutally stuffed inside an ottoman in our living room.

The house was locked from the inside, and the police didn't have a single lead.

Before she died, Annabelle left a note: "Beware of the Other Mom."

Chapter 1

Tuesday afternoon, I walked into the living room, sunlight streaming through the windows. The house was eerily quiet.

Annabelle should have been home, probably holed up in her room with her laptop, blasting music at top volume.

"Annabelle," I called her name, but no one answered.

A faint metallic scent lingered in the air, subtle but persistent. I frowned.

I stepped fully into the living room. In the center sat a wide velvet ottoman, usually used to store blankets. Today, it looked somewhat... bloated. A dark, sticky stain marred one side, almost hidden in the shadows.

I approached slowly, my heart pounding in my chest. My hand hovered over the lid. It was heavy, far too heavy, as I finally pushed it open.

The sight before me made the room spin.

Annabelle had been brutally murdered. Her body was crammed into the confined space of the ottoman. Her limbs were contorted into unnatural angles. Her eyes were vacant and lifeless.

"Ah!" A gut-wrenching scream ripped from the depths of my throat.

I stumbled backward, crashing into the coffee table.

Cedric found me curled up on the floor, dry-heaving. His usually calm and composed expression instantly crumbled the moment he saw the ottoman.

His scream intertwined with mine, a howl of pure terror. He lunged toward Annabelle, only to freeze, realizing the incomprehensible reality before him. We stared blankly, paralyzed by fear.

The police arrived. Their faces were grim, their movements practiced and steady. They took measurements, snapped photos, and asked questions we couldn't possibly answer.

There were no signs of forced entry, no signs of a struggle—at least not in the living room.

The house had been locked from the inside.

They shook their heads, their expressions unreadable. This was no ordinary case.

Annabelle had always been rebellious, constantly pushing boundaries. She was sixteen, quick-witted, and possessed brilliant tech skills.

She would sneak out, crash with friends, and go off the grid for days at a time. We had long grown used to it—worrying ourselves sick, though she always came back, usually armed with a sarcastic remark about our overprotective nagging.

But this time was different. This time, she never came back.

The police eventually left, concluding their preliminary investigation. They offered their condolences and promised to keep in touch.

I found Mom in her bedroom, curled up on the bed, weeping uncontrollably.

"She's gone, Kelly," Mom choked out, her voice barely a whisper. "My baby is gone."

I held her tighter, tears streaming down my own cheeks.

Later, when Mom finally fell into an exhausted sleep, I went into Annabelle's room.

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