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Just a Month After Mom’s D.e.ath, Dad Brought a Young Mistress Into Our Home for Christmas – I Was Shocked When I Saw Her

Grief doesn’t come in predictable waves. It crashes in silence, creeps through walls, and settles in your bones like frost. I hadn’t yet emptied Mom’s drawer of scarves — her scent still clung to the silk like a ghost refusing to leave. Her laughter echoed when the kettle whistled, and her favorite mug still sat in the dishwasher, unwashed. She’d been gone barely four weeks.

We b.u.ried her on a day that should’ve been snow, but wasn’t. Just cold gray rain and mud-soaked shoes. I stood next to Dad at the graveside, his face unreadable, like he’d already turned the page before the chapter ended. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Some people grieve in silence, right?

But then, only a week after the funeral, the signs started appearing. He shaved his beard. Bought new shirts — fitted ones. The cologne he hadn’t worn in years suddenly scented the hallway like an intruder. I told myself maybe it was his way of coping. Reinvention. A distraction.

Then he dropped the b.omb.

“I’ve met someone,” he said at breakfast, over scrambled eggs and the smell of burnt toast. “She makes me feel alive again. I think your mom would want that for me.”

Alive again? Mom hadn’t been in the ground for a full moon cycle.

I stared at him, fork frozen midair. My younger brother, Theo, blinked slowly like he couldn’t comprehend the words. The eggs turned cold. The silence was thicker than grief.

“You’re serious?” I asked.

He nodded. “She’s coming over for Christmas dinner.”

CHRISTMAS. DINNER.

That sentence haunted me for the rest of December. I didn’t decorate the tree. I didn’t bake. I didn’t play the usual carols on the old piano in the foyer. I just… existed. Or tried to.

Christmas Day came. Snow fell like it was trying to hide everything in white. Clean slates and all that. But you can’t bury betrayal under fresh powder.

She arrived at 4 PM sharp. I opened the door and nearly choked.

She wasn’t just young. She was my age. Maybe even younger. Smooth skin. Wide eyes. Glossy lips. And the way she clung to his arm like a shy schoolgirl was sickening.

“This is Camilla,” Dad said with a stupid grin. “Your new mom!”

Mom. He used the word like it was disposable. Like it was a coat you shrug on when the weather changes.

Camilla smiled at us. “Hi! It’s so great to meet you all! I’ve heard so much about you.”

I stared at her like she was a joke I didn’t find funny. Theo muttered something and walked upstairs. I stayed. Out of spite.

Dinner was unbearable. Dad laughed too loudly, too often. Camilla giggled at every bad joke, complimented my mom’s old roast recipe like it came from a cookbook, and even dared to sit in Mom’s chair — the one by the fireplace, the one with her worn cushion.

Then Dad, grinning like a fool, said, “Hope you kids got Camilla a good present under the tree. She’s family now.”

That was the final straw.

I had gotten her something.

I stood, walked calmly to the tree, and pulled the box I’d wrapped days ago. Black paper. Blood-red ribbon. I handed it to her without a word.

She gasped and clapped. “Oh! For me? You didn’t have to!”

She tore it open eagerly. The room went still.

Inside was a simple wooden frame. Nothing fancy. Just a photo.

It was a picture of my mom. Taken last Christmas. She was laughing, holding a pie, covered in flour, mid-blink. So alive, so here. Behind her, the tree sparkled, and Dad had his arm around her waist.

But that wasn’t the punch.

At the bottom of the frame, I’d engraved words.

“She was irreplaceable.”

Camilla’s smile faltered. Her hands trembled. Her breath hitched. Then came the scream — a sharp, choked sob. She stood up so fast the chair clattered behind her. Her heels slipped as she bolted to the door, bare feet crunching on the snow-dusted porch as she ran. No coat. No purse. Just the photo clutched in her hands like it burned.

Dad stood up, face red. “What the hell was that?”

I met his eyes, mine steady. “That was Mom.”

And for the first time since her funeral, his expression cracked. Just a flicker. Regret? Guilt? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

He didn’t go after Camilla. Just sank into his chair, hands covering his face. The silence returned, thick and suffocating.

I stood alone in the living room, the lights from the tree reflecting in the glass of the framed photo now sitting on the mantel.

Mom was still there. Still watching.

And some things, no matter how much snow falls, can’t be buried.

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