There was an unstable woman who kept insisting to Emily that she was her “true mother” every afternoon when Emily and her friends walked home from school… – BN
Emily Lawson was sixteen, responsible, grounded, and generally unfazed by the drama that floated around her high school. But nothing had prepared her for the strange woman who started appearing on Maple Street every afternoon. At first, Emily assumed it was a coincidence — a random passerby, someone waiting for a bus perhaps. But the pattern became impossible to ignore. Whenever Emily and her friends walked home, the woman would emerge from behind the same row of hedges, wearing an oversized brown coat and a knitted scarf even on warm days.
One Tuesday, the woman stepped directly into Emily’s path. Up close, her eyes were unsettling — not violent, but frantic, like someone clinging to a belief no one else could see. “Emily,” the woman whispered, as if speaking a sacred truth. “I am your real mother.”
Emily froze. Her friends — Tessa, Mark, and Olivia — formed a protective half-circle around her. Mark muttered, “Ma’am, you’ve got the wrong person.” But the woman shook her head, her voice trembling with certainty. “No. She belongs with me. They took her from me. Emily, darling, you remember, don’t you?”
Emily felt a rush of unease climb her spine. She remembered nothing even remotely close to what this woman claimed. Her mother, Catherine Lawson, was alive, well, and very much part of her daily life. There had been no missing years, no unknown past. Yet the woman’s conviction was unsettling.
That afternoon, after Emily and her friends hurried away, the woman followed at a distance, never approaching again but never looking away either. Over the next few days, the same thing happened: the woman would appear, step forward, whisper that she was Emily’s “true mother,” then retreat just enough to keep the situation ambiguous but frightening.
By Friday, Emily had had enough. She finally told her parents everything — the repeated encounters, the woman’s strange insistence, and the unsettling feeling that the situation was escalating. Catherine and her husband, Daniel, exchanged a look Emily couldn’t quite decipher. Not fear… but recognition. Emily’s heartbeat quickened. Something about that look told her her parents knew more than they had ever shared.
And suddenly, the woman’s obsession didn’t feel random anymore.
Emily expected her parents to laugh it off or call the police immediately. Instead, Catherine sat down at the kitchen table, exhaling slowly, while Daniel rubbed the back of his neck as if searching for the right words. “Emily,” her mother finally said, “there is something you should know. But it isn’t what that woman thinks.”
Emily leaned forward. “Who is she? Why does she think I’m her daughter?”
Daniel took over. “Years ago, before you were born, your mother used to volunteer at a women’s shelter. One of the women there… her name was Helen Ward. She struggled with severe mental health issues. She became attached to your mother — very attached. To the point where she started telling everyone that Catherine was ‘stealing’ things from her. First belongings, then opportunities… then people.”
Emily frowned. “People?”
Catherine nodded. “When I announced I was pregnant with you, Helen spiraled. She claimed the baby should be hers. It was all delusional, but her fixation was intense. She was eventually hospitalized after an incident where she tried to follow me home.”
The room went quiet.
Emily felt a chill settle in her chest. “So you think this woman is Helen?”
“I’m certain,” Catherine replied. “I recognized her description immediately — the coat, the scarf, the way she speaks.” She reached for her daughter’s hand. “She’s not dangerous in the sense of wanting to harm you, but she’s unstable. And her fixation is real.”
Emily swallowed. “Why now? Why after sixteen years?”
Daniel answered softly, “Most likely, she found your school or learned your name somewhere. These things sometimes resurface when a patient relapses or loses stability.”
Emily’s friends, who had been quietly listening, exchanged glances. Mark finally said, “Shouldn’t we tell someone? School security? The police?”
“We will,” Catherine replied, “but we have to do it carefully. Helen’s condition is complicated. A direct confrontation might worsen things for her — and possibly for Emily.”
Over the weekend, the Lawsons reported the issue to local authorities and the mental health facility Helen had been treated at in the past. They were advised to avoid engaging with her while professionals attempted to locate her and offer assistance.
Despite these precautions, Monday afternoon came. And there Helen was again — standing exactly where she always stood on Maple Street, waiting for Emily with trembling anticipation in her eyes.
This time, however, things did not unfold the same way.
When Emily and her friends approached, they noticed something different. Helen wasn’t alone. A man in plain clothes — not threatening, but observant — stood nearby. He kept a respectful distance but didn’t take his eyes off her. Emily later learned he was a social worker assigned to help locate and gently approach Helen without causing panic.
Helen saw Emily and brightened instantly. “My girl,” she whispered. “You came back to me.”
Emily’s heart pounded, but she remembered her parents’ advice. Don’t engage emotionally. Don’t argue. Don’t validate or escalate.
Tessa squeezed her hand. “We’re right here,” she whispered.
Helen took a step closer, but the social worker intervened with calm, steady control. “Helen,” he said softly, “we talked about this. Remember? Emily isn’t your daughter. Catherine Lawson isn’t your enemy. You had a hard time years ago, but things can get better.”
Helen shook her head violently. “No! They took her! She was mine!” Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face. “You don’t understand. I should have had a girl. A daughter who needed me.”
Emily felt a deep pang — not fear, but something closer to sorrow. Helen’s pain was real, even if her belief wasn’t.
The social worker gently approached her again. “Helen, let’s go somewhere quiet. You’re distressed. Let’s talk.”
For a moment, Helen looked torn between fighting and collapsing. Then her shoulders slumped, and she covered her face with her hands. “I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered.
“You’re not,” the social worker replied. “But you need help, not fear. Let me walk with you.”
Slowly, Helen allowed herself to be led away. She never looked back at Emily, but the lingering grief in her expression stayed with the girl long after the street emptied.
Later that evening, the social worker called the Lawson family. Helen had agreed to return for treatment and would be monitored closely. She wouldn’t be approaching Emily again — not out of punishment, but for her own healing.
Emily sat quietly on her bed after the call, processing everything. For years, she had walked past strangers without thinking twice. Now she understood how fragile reality could be for some people… and how compassion, even in fear, mattered.
