When Stacy’s mother-in-law keeps insisting on private time with her granddaughter, she finally gives in — though it goes against her better judgment. But when Kitt returns home unusually quiet, noticeably changed, and holding back secrets, Stacy’s instincts warn her something isn’t right. As those small differences grow heavier and more troubling, she has no choice but to confront the question: who is truly being protected here?
I used to believe grief was silent. Something you bore alone.
But the day my daughter Kitt was born, my mother-in-law Patrice began telling everyone she had been granted a second chance.
She said it with real warmth, I believe — tears shining in her eyes at the hospital, one hand resting on her heart, the other softly stroking Kitt’s cheek.
I was still dazed from the epidural, but her expression stayed vivid — full of wonder, slightly shaking, almost as though she were praying quietly.
Patrice has this habit of turning requests into foregone conclusions.
“You look exhausted, Stacy,” she said, already lifting Kitt’s little coat. “Let me take her for a bit so you can rest.”
She smiled as she spoke. That’s how Patrice is — always smiling, as if every suggestion comes straight from care.
Finn, my husband, calls it kind.
I see it as carefully rehearsed.
The first time she asked to have Kitt to herself, I agreed. I wish I hadn’t. Not because I sensed danger, but because I never imagined how deeply it would alter my child.
Still, I knew refusing would hurt Patrice’s feelings, and Finn would likely side with her and grow distant.
“Don’t you trust me, Stacy? I’m her grandmother! I just want to pamper her and make sure she knows I’ll always be here.”
It irritated me, I’ll admit, but at the time I thought it was innocent.
It began like any ordinary Sunday.
Patrice dropped Kitt off with a casual wave and drove away quickly before I could ask about their day. My seven-year-old was usually bright and easygoing, but sometimes she had firm preferences about how things should happen.
Kitt didn’t burst in for her usual tight hug. She entered slowly, shoes still laced, arms pulled inside her sleeves like she was protecting herself.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I said, arms wide and smiling. “Had a nice time with Grandma?”
She barely responded — just gazed at me, head tilted a little.
“Hungry, honey? Strawberries are in the fridge, and we can melt chocolate.”
“No,” she answered sharply. “No, Mom.”
She moved to the kitchen counter, eyes glancing toward the hallway.
“Kitt? Where are you going? Don’t you want to spend time together?”
Her voice was so faint I nearly missed it. “Mom… Grandma said not to tell you what we did.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said keep it secret, Mom.” Tears welled up, but she stared at her dotted socks. “She said it’s only for us. I had to promise.”
“Even so, baby. If anything felt strange or confusing, you can tell me. You know you can share anything with me, right? I won’t be upset.”
She stayed quiet. Then she stepped close and hugged my waist tightly, face buried against me. I held her, stroking her hair. I didn’t push.
But a sharp unease split open inside.
That night I mentioned it to Finn while he brushed his teeth.
“She told Kitt to hide what they did together from me. That’s not normal, is it?”
He met my eyes in the mirror, foam at his lips. “Maybe they’re planning a surprise. Why do you always expect the worst?”
“It didn’t feel like a surprise… Something feels off.”
He rinsed and sighed.
“Was Kitt upset?”
“She seemed… hesitant. Like she was holding something back.”
“She’s seven. Could have been a game. Or maybe Mom just asked her to help with chores.”
“Or maybe not, Finn. You don’t find it odd at all?”
He dried his face. “You’re tired, Stacy. Mom’s just trying to help. Let it go.”
That word — help — lodged in my throat again.
The next afternoon I found an old photo tucked in Kitt’s backpack.
It had softened corners, colors slightly washed out — clearly treasured. A young girl stood before a brick house, hair in neat twin braids, yellow dress, smiling warmly.
She looked so much like Kitt — but she wasn’t. I turned it over.
“To Mommy. You’re the best! Love, Becca.”
In different handwriting below: “1992.”
I showed Finn while Kitt prepared for bed. He studied it quietly, brow furrowed as if pulling a memory from haze.
“That’s Becca,” he said finally. “My sister.”
“I never knew you had a sister.”
“She passed before I turned ten. I hardly remember her. Photos like this haven’t come up in years.”
“Okay, but why was it in Kitt’s bag?”
“I’m not sure. Probably meaningless. Kitt does resemble her a little…”
But it meant everything. Especially when Kitt began humming strange lullabies. When she asked for tuna pasta over her favorite chicken parmesan. When she returned from Patrice’s in unfamiliar sweaters, holding books published long before her birth.
“Where’d this come from?” I asked once, showing a worn novel.
“It’s Bee’s,” she said. “Grandma let me borrow it.”
“Who’s Bee, sweetheart?”
“I never met the first Bee… but I’m the new one,” she whispered.
Within days Kitt wanted braids — two perfect, symmetrical ones — even though they pulled and hurt. She begged to wear them to school.
“Grandma says it looks tidier,” she explained softly. “And tidy is good for school.”
I nearly shouted. I nearly drove to Patrice’s and demanded answers. Instead I turned to Finn again.
“She’s dressing Kitt in Becca’s clothes. Giving her Becca’s books. Calling her the ‘new Bee.’ Finn — admit it’s strange.”
“I think my mother is grieving.”
“No. She’s reshaping something. Grief may be the cause, but this isn’t healthy for them.”
“She doesn’t mean any harm,” he said. “Kitt reminds her of Becca. That’s all. Let her keep that. Maybe it helps her heal… something we never could.”
“She’s turning our daughter into a replacement.”
I needed concrete proof — not just intuition clawing at me.
So when Patrice texted about ice cream with Kitt, I agreed. Then I followed — two cars back, palms slick on the wheel.
They didn’t go to her house. They turned down a quiet, tree-shaded lane I’d never noticed — narrow, peaceful, air too still.
At the end of a gravel drive stood a small cottage, paint peeling, green edges curling. They went inside.
Ten minutes later Patrice emerged, clutching a framed photo to her chest. She sat on the porch swing, lit a citronella candle, and gazed into the trees.
Soon Kitt joined her — braids neat, yellow sweater hanging loose.
They sat silently at first. Then Patrice opened a small notebook and read aloud softly.
Kitt listened intently. Then she laughed — and the sound wasn’t hers. She reached over, took Patrice’s hand, and pressed it to her cheek.
I couldn’t look away.
That night, while Kitt slept, I opened her nightstand drawer. A gold locket waited. I clicked it open, hoping for our family picture.
Instead: Patrice holding an infant on one side, the girl from the photo — Becca — on the other. I showed Finn like evidence.
“Mom wore this every day after Becca died,” he said. “I thought she’d buried it.”
“Did you ever wonder why she stopped?”
He paused, eyes dropping.
“Because now Kitt has it… Still think nothing’s wrong?”
He stayed silent. When I knocked on Patrice’s door, she opened calmly, looking tired but not surprised.
“Stacy,” she said softly, as if expecting me.
“We need to talk about Kitt.”
She let me in without a word and led me to the kitchen. The kettle was already on.
We waited quietly while she made tea — she remembered how I liked it.
“Patrice, my daughter is not… Becca.”
“I know, dear. I know.”
“Then why all this? She called herself the ‘new Bee.’ Don’t you see how wrong that is?”
“Have you ever lost a child?” she asked, hands trembling as she set down the mugs.
“No. But I know what it means to raise one. And I won’t let mine live as someone else’s shadow.”
She sat slowly. “Kitt echoed Becca so much. Small things at first — how she held a crayon, her laugh, her handwriting. Then questions came, and I… answered.”
“You didn’t just answer. You pulled her into another life.”
“She loved the stories. She chose the sweaters, said I looked happier when she wore them.”
“She’s seven. She’s discovering herself. You gave her a role instead of room to grow.”
“I never meant to,” Patrice whispered. “I missed Becca terribly. I thought… maybe I could feel her again. Just for a moment.”
“You can miss her. But not through Kitt. She’s your granddaughter — not a substitute. I won’t let her erase herself to spare you pain.”
“What now?” she asked, finally meeting my eyes.
“I’m drawing a line. You need real help — therapy, counseling. You shouldn’t carry this alone.”
“And Kitt?”
“Unsupervised visits only after you start therapy. Otherwise, I’m present. No exceptions.”
“You’d really do that?”
My heart ached for her. I couldn’t imagine losing Kitt — yet she had endured that loss for decades.
“I don’t want to,” I admitted. “But I will. Because I’m a mother too, and I protect my child.”
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll try.”
That night, brushing Kitt’s hair, she stayed quiet a long time.
“I liked being Bee,” she said softly.
“I know, baby. But you don’t have to be anyone except yourself.”
“It made Grandma happy. She cried sometimes… even when we laughed.”
“Do you know why?”
“Because she missed Becca?”
“Yes. And maybe… she started missing the real you, too.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, sweetheart. You were gentle and kind — exactly what she needed then. She’s hurting, and that’s okay.”
“I just want to be Kitt again.”
“You always have been, my love,” I whispered.
I remembered Patrice’s fragile voice.
“Mom… Grandma told me not to tell…”
But she did tell me.
And no one will ever hush her again.