Chapter 1

My mother-in-law, Eleanor, was thrilled when she found out I was pregnant.

Every single day, she would slow-cook a special pot of herbal broth to "nourish my body."

But beneath this warm, caring facade, her behavior started getting weirder and weirder.

During my afternoon naps, she would hover over me, whispering a strange name to my swollen belly.

At dinner, she would practically force me to gulp down every last drop of her broth.

And finally, in the dead of night, she took it too far.

I woke up in the pitch black to feel her cold ear pressed flat against my bare stomach.

"Be good, Leo," she whispered, her voice trembling with a chilling tenderness. "Mommy’s right here. We’ll be together again very soon!"

Hearing those words, I shivered, half-convinced I was trapped in a nightmare.

But the moment I fluttered my eyes open and realized it wasn’t a dream, terror gripped my chest. I screamed, frantically pushing the dark figure off my body.

The commotion jolted my husband, Ethan, awake. He scrambled to flick on the bedside lamp.

As the light flooded the room, revealing the hunched silhouette of his mother, I clutched my chest, gasping for air. My fear quickly turned into boiling frustration.

"Eleanor, what on earth are you doing? You scared the life out of me! Why are you lurking in our room in the middle of the night, whispering to my stomach?"

Ethan frowned, his face filled with sheer disbelief. "Yeah, Mom. Seriously, what is wrong with you?"

Eleanor, caught red-handed, didn't even look embarrassed. Her eyes lingered on my belly for a long, unsettling moment before she finally looked up.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, you two. Daisy is over six months along now. I just wanted to do some late-night prenatal bonding. If we start early, the baby will be a genius when he's born."

Though my heart was still pounding, I forced myself to take a deep breath and keep my voice level. I explained to her that even in the womb, babies need to sleep. Any reading or music should be done during the day, for just ten or fifteen minutes.

Besides, that kind of bonding is usually reserved for the mother, given the unique connection between her and the baby.

Before I could finish, Eleanor snapped.

"What do you mean, 'mother'? I am his real mother! You’re just the—"

"What?" I froze, staring at her venomous expression. I couldn't comprehend what she had just said.

Realizing her slip, Eleanor quickly slapped her own cheek and forced a shaky laugh.

"Oh, look at me, my mouth is running faster than my brain. Don't mind me, Daisy. I meant to say, I'm his grandmother. How can I be an outsider? Blood is thicker than water, after all."

Thankfully, Ethan didn't let the conversation drag on. Arguing that a pregnant woman needed her rest, he gently pushed Eleanor out of the room and locked the door, pulling me back into his arms.

But as I lay in the dark, my mind raced.

Did I mishear her? Did Eleanor really just say she was the "real mother" of the baby in my womb?

And when she was whispering to my belly earlier, she kept referring to herself as "Mommy."

But that was scientifically impossible. This wasn't an IVF pregnancy. Even if there had been some medical mix-up, it would have to involve Ethan, not his sixty-year-old mother. Besides, her husband, Robert, was seventy and had lost his reproductive abilities years ago.

I decided I must have been hallucinating from exhaustion. It was a good thing I didn't push the issue, or things would have been incredibly awkward.

The next morning, the rich aroma of food drifted from the kitchen much earlier than usual. I had planned to say something nice to Eleanor to smooth things over, but the moment she set down that familiar pot of broth, the words died in my throat.

"Eleanor, seriously, I'm entering my third trimester. It was fine when you made this soup every day early on, but my OB-GYN specifically said that over-nutrition will make the baby too large, which makes labor dangerous!"

Eleanor’s hands paused. Her face crumpled into a mask of deep sorrow.

"Oh... but I made this meatball broth especially light. I skimmed all the fat off the top so you wouldn't gain weight. Do you just hate my cooking? Or is my recipe too awful for you to swallow?"

Seeing her look so devastated that she couldn't even eat her own breakfast, I sighed. I took the bowl she offered and swallowed the single, large meatball sitting in the broth.

To be honest, the flavor wasn't bad. But after drinking it for nearly a month, I was thoroughly sick of it. What made it weirder was that no matter how big the pot was, there was always only ever one meatball. I was basically filling up on water. Eating it made me feel selfish, but refusing it made me feel like an ungrateful brat.