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My mom is not my mom.
My mom has beautiful silvery hair, with a lily tucked behind her ear. She wears green, matching her staff. She doesn’t like to cook, but she likes to clean. She enjoys reading books about biology and does experiments in the basement. My dad has told me and my siblings that we’re not allowed down there, but my mom is willing to share details at dinner.
My mom calls us her “wonders.” My mom receives a cup of tea from my dad each morning. My mom helps to brush our hair and playfully complains about how my dad’s genes won, since we all look like him. My mom hates telling us bedtime stories, but she loves giving us goodnight kisses and cuddles. My mom prefers eating salads and winces whenever she sees meat.
A month ago, my mom changed.
My dad was away for the day. He used to be a king and his kingdom, which flies above a few miles away from our little cottage, likes to call on him for advice. My mom went out to the garden. Me, Calla Lily, and Vanilla Cake were doing our homework when we heard what sounded like a cry.
My mom came in before we could go out, holding her hand, her sleeves stained red. She said that she slipped up when gathering some flowers. When my dad came home, he healed her.
After that day, my mom was different.
The next morning, she made pancakes and made tea for dad. She said she wanted to, as thanks for dad healing her. She made lunch for us too. At dinner that night, she looked uncomfortable as she ate her salad.
She stopped wearing lilies. She started wearing milk crowns in her hair. Calla Lily asked why, and she said she just wanted to mix it up. The next day, she wore a crown of milk crowns and calla lilies.
She started telling us bedtime stories, stories about animals pretending to be humans, humans pretending to be another person. She looked awkward when Vanilla Cake asked for a goodnight kiss the fifth night of her not doing it. My dad did it for her. He had a calm smile, as though nothing was wrong.
She stopped reading biology books. She stopped going to the basement. Instead, she started reading fantasy books, works of fiction, and plays. She started writing plays and, whenever she got up from her armchair, she would have something new written out.
She still brushes our hair. Instead of “wonders”, she calls us her “little stars”. Instead of complaining about how we all look like our dad, she stares at our reflection. She stares and smiles, as though she wants to eat us.
She started wearing blue. Instead of her modest green gown, she started wearing fancier dresses, more like the wife of a former king.
She took over cooking.
One night, she made steak. Ours all looked normal. She then set a plate of steak down at her placement. When she cut it open, it looked raw. “Are you sure you do not want me to cook it a bit longer?” my dad asked, worry creasing his eyes. “That does not look that delicious.”
“Oh, Nilly,” my mom crooned, using a nickname she had never used before her slipup in the garden, slicing a piece away. “It’s perfect.” She bit down and then smiled with bloodstained teeth.
My mom has red eyes. My mom doesn’t have blue eyes.
It was the moment I realized my dad was terrified.
That night, I was awake. I could not sleep. The thought of those blue eyes, digging into me, as though she was prepared to take a knife and cut me open, kept me awake. The memory of my dad, slightly trembling, kept me awake.
The thought of my mom, my real mom, scared and hurt or dying all alone, kept me awake.
Finally, I got up. Calla Lily turned in her bed, and I realized that she was trembling. Vanilla Cake sniffled, tears beading in her eyes. I took the candle and stepped out of my room.
Our cottage was little. It was supposed to be warm, comforting. That night, it felt like a huge cave, cold and uncaring of who it swallowed. My little puddle of light felt like a beacon, like the stories my fake mom told, warning monsters of my presence.
My parents’ room was just down the hall. It felt like a mile.
The door was cracked open. I snuffed out the candle and knelt next to the wall, preferring to listen rather than see.
“- you promised me that-”
“Well, deals change, Nilly! Do you really think Silent Salt would give up Lil Miss Quarter Soul after just having her for a month?”
“She belongs here! With me! With our children!”
“And you should be lucky that I want those children! If Silent Salt had his way, he would have your children killed.”
There was a crash. “Don’t you even think about laying a hand on my children!” I had never heard my dad roar like that.
“Easy, Nilly, did you not hear that I want your children? They all look like you…” My fake mom’s voice was soft, just a bit wistful, but it crackled back. “Besides, you can’t lie to yourself! You’re happy that someone’s picking up on that sad excuse for a guardian’s slack.”
“You’re twisting the truth. White Lily is doing her best.”
“Well, her best sucks. If she were truly dedicated, she would have made sure we didn’t break out a second time. She wouldn’t be downstairs all the time with her experiments.”
“I-”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway. She’s not coming back, and I’m more than willing to play mother. The kids certainly prefer me. Or, at least, are smart enough to see through me.” My fake mom’s voice rose. “Isn’t that right, Blueberry Vanilla Custard?”
I ran. I ran and hid in my bed, trembling the entire night. Calla Lily and Vanilla Cake didn't ask why.
They were scared too.
When we came down for breakfast, there was a cheerful "Good morning, my little stars!" The creature who had pretended to be my mom grinned from the stove, her hair dark and blue. "Breakfast is ready!"
My mom is gone.
My mother is here.