initial confrontation

Over the next few days, the unease grows. You notice small things: the way Jennifer hums a pop song Allison loved, one your mom always mocked; the way she hesitates before responding to your dad’s casual endearments; the way she watches you when she thinks you’re not looking. Randall, oblivious to your suspicions, fills your days with video games and bad jokes, but even he notices something off.

“Dude, your mom’s been, like, extra mom-ish,” he says one afternoon, sprawled on your couch. “She made us those cookies Allison used to bake. Kinda weird, right?”

You laugh it off, but his words stick. Allison’s cookies—peanut butter with chocolate chips, slightly underbaked. Your mom never made them before. You file it away, another piece of the puzzle.

At school, you’re distracted, your mind drifting during classes. Your friends rally around you, but their sympathy for Allison’s death feels like a weight you can’t carry. You avoid Allison’s locker, the one still decorated with stickers she loved, but you can’t avoid the whispers. Everyone knows about the accident, but no one knows what you overheard in the hospital—or what you’re starting to suspect.

One night, you’re helping your mom with the dishes, the rest of the family scattered—Dad at work, David at a friend’s, Tabitha at dance practice. It’s just the two of you, the kitchen quiet except for the clink of plates. She hands you a dish, her fingers lingering against yours again, and you can’t hold back anymore.

“Mom, I need to ask you something,” you say, your voice low. “And I need you to be honest.”

She freezes, her eyes locking onto yours. “Of course, Tim. What is it?”

You take a deep breath, the words heavy on your tongue. “In the hospital, I heard the doctors talking about a transplant. Allison’s brain… in your body. I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t shake it. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Her face pales, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words come. For a moment, you see it—the flash of Allison in her eyes, the girl you loved, trapped behind your mother’s face. Then she blinks, and it’s gone, replaced by Jennifer’s familiar smile.

“Tim, you were in a coma. You were heavily medicated. It’s natural to have strange dreams,” she says, her voice steady but too careful. “I’m your mom. I’m right here.”

You want to believe her, but the lie hangs between you, thick and unspoken. She turns back to the sink, her hands trembling as she scrubs a plate. You don’t push further, not yet, but the seed of doubt has taken root.