Chapter 3

My baby brother, Mason, arrived in the spring.

During the late stages of her pregnancy, my mom would often take my hand and place it gently on her swollen belly. "Chloe, feel that? Your little brother is kicking you."

Her smile was full of pure, maternal bliss.

I, too, waited for his arrival with excitement. I even saved up my pocket money to buy a tiny plush bear as a welcoming gift for him.

The day Mason was born, I waited in the hospital corridor for twelve long hours.

Finally, my dad walked out of the delivery room and smiled at me. "It's a boy, Chloe. He’s healthy. Your mom is doing great."

I stood on my tiptoes, trying to peek through the door. A friendly nurse laughed and led me inside.

My mom was lying on the bed, pale but smiling.

Right next to her was a tiny bundle, revealing a soft, pink little face.

"Come here, Chloe. Look at your brother," she whispered softly.

I walked over on my tiptoes, terrified of disturbing this fragile new life.

At that moment, I loved him with all my heart.

The first few weeks were completely normal.

During her postpartum recovery, my mom would smile and let me hold Mason, even if it was just for a few minutes at a time.

She taught me how to cradle his head and rock him gently.

My arms would go stiff from nervousness, but my heart was overflowing with love.

But gradually, a subtle shift began to happen in our home.

My mom’s eyes started drifting. Whenever she spoke to me, she would suddenly stop mid-sentence, as if she had forgotten what she was saying.

At first, we all assumed it was just postpartum exhaustion. I thought so, too.

The first time I realized something was seriously wrong was when Mason was two months old.

I came home from school, and before I could even put down my backpack, I ran over to his crib.

Mason was awake, staring up at the ceiling with his round, dark eyes.

I reached out my hand, wanting to gently touch his tiny fingers. Suddenly, my mom rushed out of the kitchen like a maniac, screaming at the top of her lungs as she shoved me away. "Get away from him! Don't touch my baby!"

I lost my balance and crashed onto the floor, my elbow slamming hard against the sharp corner of the coffee table. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my arm.

I stared at her in utter shock.

Her expression was entirely foreign—guarded, hostile, like a wild lioness protecting her cub. She stood rigidly between me and the crib, her eyes locked onto me.

A few seconds later, she seemed to snap out of it. Seeing me crying on the floor, panic flashed across her face. "Chloe? Oh my god, what did I do? I... I just..."

She rushed over to pull me up, checking my elbow, which was already bruising.

Her voice trembled. "Does it hurt? Sweetie, Mom didn't mean to. I don't know what came over me."

I brushed the dust off my skirt, forcing a small smile. "It's okay, Mom. You're just really tired."

My elbow throbbed painfully, but the confusion blooming in my chest hurt so much more.

At that time, I genuinely believed she was just exhausted.

I even blamed myself. *I shouldn't have tried to touch the baby without washing my hands first. Newborns have weak immune systems. Mom was just trying to protect him.*

I had no idea that this was only the beginning of a never-ending nightmare.

Things quickly deteriorated.

My mom started "forgetting" who I was more and more frequently.

Sometimes, while she was chopping vegetables in the kitchen, she would suddenly spin around and glare at me with cold, hostile eyes. "Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

At first, I thought she was playing a cruel joke. I laughed nervously. "Mom, stop it. It's me, Chloe."

But the sheer emptiness and suspicion in her eyes were so terrifyingly real that the laugh died in my throat.

"Chloe?"

She repeated the name, her brow furrowed as if searching her mind.

"Do I have a daughter? How old is she?"

"I'm twelve, Mom," I said, my heart starting to race with panic.

*Was she going to hit me again?*

My dad would usually walk out of his home office at that point, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Eleanor, honey, this is Chloe. Our daughter. Remember?"

His voice was always incredibly calm, and it quickly pacified her.

My mom would look at my dad, then at me, and then nod slowly. "Chloe... right. Yes, I remember now."

But as time went on, the most terrifying development was that she began to permanently cast me as her imaginary enemy.

Once, when Aunt Clara came over to visit, my mom pointed a trembling finger at me. "She’s trying to steal my baby! I know she is!"

Clara laughed awkwardly, trying to smooth things over. "Eleanor, what are you talking about? That's Chloe. Your own daughter."

My mom stared at me for what felt like an eternity before letting out a slow, hesitant nod.

But she pulled Mason tighter against her chest, turning her body away from me in a fiercely protective stance.

The moment Clara left, my mom burst into tears.

She threw her arms around me, weeping hysterically. "Chloe, did Mommy lose her mind again? What did I say? Did I hurt you, baby?"

Her hot tears dripped onto my shoulder, scalding my skin.

"No, Mom. It's okay. You're just tired."

***