Mistaken Mommy

CHAPTER 1: Mommy?

It had been a hell of a day.

Siena Marell’s back ached. Six hours of back-to-back lectures had fried her brain. Add period cramps, and she was one bad moment away from crying into a bag of discount snacks.

The only thing she wanted was to crawl into bed, curl up with a hot water bottle, and cry over lecture slides that made no sense.

Her auburn hair was tied into a messy bun, strands falling over tired brown eyes. Freckles dusted her cheeks, barely noticeable beneath the dull glow of the setting sun. In her worn jeans and oversized cream sweater, she looked like every other overworked grad student—except she didn’t feel like one. Not today.

She took the longer route home to avoid the crowded bus stop near campus. A mistake, as it turned out. The gravel path near the park scraped at her flats. Children’s laughter echoed across the playground. Mothers sipped iced lattes on benches, comparing nap times and tantrums.

Siena kept her eyes forward. She didn’t hate kids, exactly. But she didn’t want them near her. Not after everything.

She quickened her steps. Almost there.

Then it happened.

A small blur darted out from behind the swings and ran straight into her.

Two arms wrapped around her legs.

“Mommy!”

She froze.

Her heart stopped.

Looking down, she saw a tiny boy—maybe five years old—clinging to her like a lifeline. His hair was dark, a bit messy, his cheeks red from crying or running or both. His big brown eyes blinked up at her, wide and wet.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

Her mouth parted.

No words came out.

Her stomach knotted. Something about his face twisted a thread inside her. He clutched the hem of her blouse, fingers trembling.

A sudden flicker shot through her head.

Beeping.

Cold air.

A scream—sharp, small, and close to her ear.

She blinked. The sound was gone.

Memory?

No. That wasn’t possible.

Siena gently pried the boy’s hands from her clothes. “You’ve got the wrong person, sweetheart. I’m not your mom.”

His lip quivered.

She stepped back. “I said I’m not your mom.” Firmer this time.

Still, the boy didn’t move.

He just stared.

Something cracked.

Not in him—in her.

The kind of crack you didn’t notice until it echoed.

She turned and walked away.

Behind her, she heard the sobs.

They followed her all the way out of the park.

She didn’t stop.

Her cramps were killing her. Her brain was fogged. She didn’t have the capacity to process someone else’s mistake, especially one shaped like a five-year-old child calling her Mommy.

By the time she reached her building, her jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. She slammed the apartment door shut and locked it behind her. Her tiny flat smelled faintly of instant noodles and lavender oil. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed on the couch.

Her phone buzzed.

She ignored it.

Then buzzed again.

She sighed and glanced at the screen.

> Liam: You alive? Or did a textbook fall on you again?

She almost smiled. Almost.

She didn’t reply.

She pulled her blanket over her head and closed her eyes.

That boy’s voice still echoed in her ears.

Mommy.

She had never been anyone’s mother. Never wanted to be. She couldn’t remember ever holding a baby, let alone giving birth to one.

But that flicker in her head—the hospital noise, the scream—it wasn’t new.

It had visited her in dreams.

White lights. Blood. Nurses shouting.

A cry.

Always the cry.

Her therapist called them stress flashbacks. Said it was her mind’s way of processing trauma. But trauma from what? A year of her life was a blank space. Her records said she had dropped out for medical reasons, but she didn’t remember the diagnosis.

Just the dreams.

And the cold.

Another knock jolted her.

She sat up, startled.

Checked the time. 8:12 p.m.

No one she knew came over unannounced.

She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole.

Empty hallway.

No movement.

She waited. Held her breath.

Nothing.

She stepped back and leaned against the door.