My Son Wants My Husband's Mistress to Be His Mom

I drove through a snowstorm to bring my son his asthma inhaler, only for my car to plunge down a slope.

Bleeding and trapped, I called my husband twenty-seven times.

My own son rejected every call, then blocked me.

They were taking family photos with my husband's former fiancée and did not want me—his real mother—interrupting them.

On my son's birthday, I was running a high fever, and my husband left me home alone.

My husband, Daniel, had gone to the party with his former fiancée, Viola. At the party, Viola claimed she had made the cake I had spent two sleepless nights creating.

My biological son, Lucas, held up a white sign. It read: MY REAL MOM.

He stood between Viola and Daniel and raised the sign for their family portrait.

One minute later, Lucas called me.

"I left my asthma inhaler at home. Bring it here in twenty minutes. Give it to the security guard. You're not allowed inside."

I did not answer at once.

The party livestream was still playing on my phone. Viola was cutting the snowy mountain cake I had made.

She told the guests, "I made this for Lucas. I didn't sleep at all last night."

Everyone praised her.

The blisters from making the cake were still on the back of my hand. Lucas had asked for a cake that looked as if snow were falling inside it. It had taken me seven attempts to get it right. That morning, even with a fever of 102.2 degrees, I had finished the last layer of frosting.

Now Lucas fed the first slice to Viola.

"Mommy Viola, is it good?"

I heard my son call Viola Mom.

I immediately called Daniel. He rejected the call and sent me a message.

"If you're sick, stay home. Today is Lucas's birthday. Don't come and ruin the mood."

When Viola leaned down to blow out the candles, I saw a sapphire brooch pinned to her dress.

It was the heirloom my mother had left me. That morning, it had still been locked in my jewelry box.

I sent Daniel a screenshot from the livestream.

"Why did you give her my mother's brooch?"

Daniel read the message but did not reply.

On the livestream, he reached over to straighten the brooch for Viola, then put his arm around her shoulders.

The photographer told them to pose for a family portrait.

Lucas held the white sign against his chest. Viola stood on his left, Daniel on his right, and Lucas stood between them.

"Dad, move closer to Mommy Viola."

Daniel did.

Lucas added, "Don't let Emma come. She is always telling me what to do, and she'll make the pictures ugly."

The guests laughed.

Viola asked, "Won't your real mother be sad if you say that?"

"She'll cry for a while and get over it," Lucas said. "Dad always says a few nice things, and then she goes back to cooking and doing my laundry."

I sent Lucas a voice message.

"Who told you to make that sign saying 'My Real Mom'?"

Lucas read the message but did not answer. He simply removed my access to the livestream.

Then he called again.

"Are you bringing my inhaler or not?"

"It is in the drawer of your nightstand. Tell your father to come get it."

"Dad has been drinking. He can't drive. You bring it."

I looked outside. Snow had already covered the front steps, and ice warnings kept appearing on my phone.

"Have Viola drive you home first. You can't be without your inhaler for long."

"It's my birthday. She can't leave," Lucas said. "You forgot to put it in my backpack, so you have to bring it."

"I have a fever, and there is a blizzard outside."

"A fever won't kill you. Mommy Viola says you just don't want me to be happy."

Lucas hung up.

Daniel sent me another message almost immediately.

"Stop pretending to be helpless. Leave the inhaler with security and go home. I don't want the guests seeing you tonight."

They had taken the cake I made, given my mother's brooch to Viola, and barred me from my own son's birthday. Now that Lucas needed his inhaler, they expected me to drive through a blizzard to deliver it.

When Lucas had his first asthma attack at five, I had carried him into the emergency room myself. I was afraid he would have another attack, so I went to get the inhaler.

I put it in a gift bag. Inside was also the handmade snowy mountain music box I had made for Lucas.

I drove away from the house. Snow covered the road, and the tires kept losing traction.

Lucas called for the third time.

"Why aren't you here yet?"

"The road is covered in ice. I can't drive fast."

"You're always so slow."

Lucas hung up. My car suddenly skidded to the right and crashed through the roadside guardrail.

The gift bag fell from the passenger seat to the floor. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, but the car was already tumbling down the slope.