My 6-Year-Old Asked About Her “Other Mother”... But I Adopted Her Alone and Have Never Had a Partner
“My other mom sings to me when you’re asleep.”
That was what my daughter said.
And I swear, for one second, my whole body went cold.
I’m thirty-five years old. I’m a single mother by choice. I adopted my daughter, Lucy, when she was just two weeks old. Since the day I brought her home, it’s been only the two of us.
No ex-wife.
No former partner.
No second mother figure.
No one else raising her beside me.
Just me, bedtime stories, packed lunches, fever nights, scraped knees, morning kisses, and the kind of love that gets built in small, ordinary moments.
So when she asked me that question one night, I honestly thought I had misheard her.
We were curled up on the couch watching a movie. Lucy, six years old and warm in my arms, looked up at me and said, as casually as if she were asking for juice:
“When is my other mom coming back?”
I laughed softly at first, thinking she meant someone from the movie.
“Your other mom?” I asked. “What other mom?”
She blinked at me like I was the one being silly.
“The one who sings to me when you’re asleep,” she said. “The one in the blue dress.”
I didn’t say anything for a second.
I couldn’t.
Because there was no other mom.
No one came into our house.
No one had keys except me.
We lived alone.
I forced a smile, even though something sharp and icy had already started creeping up my spine.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”
Lucy snuggled closer against me, completely calm.
“Sometimes she sits on my bed,” she said. “She smells like flowers. She tells me to take care of you.”
That was the moment my heart began to pound.
I tucked her into bed that night trying to act normal, but my mind wouldn’t stop racing. I told myself it was imagination. A dream. One of those strange little stories children create when the world is still soft around the edges.
But after that, things started happening.
Fresh flowers would show up on Lucy’s nightstand.
Not a whole bouquet. Just one or two stems. Delicate. Beautiful. As if someone had placed them there with intention.
Her favorite teddy bear would be neatly propped against her pillow in the morning, even on nights I knew I hadn’t touched it.
Once, I found the blanket tucked around her so perfectly it looked like careful hands had done it while she slept.
I told myself there had to be an explanation.
I told myself I was tired.
Until the night I woke up suddenly at three in the morning and heard someone humming from Lucy’s room.
A woman’s voice.
Soft. Gentle. Familiar.
I sat up in bed so fast I nearly couldn’t breathe.
It was an old lullaby.
Not one from a cartoon.
Not something from school.
Not anything Lucy could have learned on her own.
It was the song my mother used to sing to me when I was little.
My mother, who died when I was fifteen.
I don’t even remember crossing the hallway. One second I was in bed, the next I was standing at Lucy’s half-open door with my hand clamped over my mouth.
Your Little Daughter Whispered About Her “Other Mom” at Bedtime… Then You Found Out the Woman Visiting Her at Night Had Been Dead for Twenty Years
