When I agreed to co ho for the sumr, I expected three things:
Awkward small talk with my emotionally unavailable father.
A fridge full of protein shakes and nothing else.
Silence.
What I didn’t expect was to walk into my childhood ho, suitcase still in hand, and find a barefoot woman in the kitchen wearing my father’s dress shirt like a robe from a questionable lifestyle magazine.
She was humming.
She was making eggs.
And she looked up at with a bright, effortless smile like I hadn’t just caught her in the middle of an indie romance movie.
"Oh," she said. "You must be Aaron."
I blinked.
"Uh... yeah."
She gave this cheery little wave with a spatula. "I’m Elena. Your stepmom."
Stepmom.
The word hit like soone had thrown a wet sponge directly at my face. I had to repeat it in my head a few tis just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating:
Step.
Mom.
Step. Mom.
"What?"
She laughed softly, stirring the eggs like this conversation wasn’t slowly ruining my grip on reality.
"Your dad didn’t tell you?" she asked, and I could already tell from the way her eyes widened that she knew the answer.
I shook my head slowly, because what the hell else was I supposed to do?
No text. No call. Not even a vague "Hey, son, by the way, I got married to soone who looks like she drinks iced coffee and listens to Taylor Swift breakup albums on vinyl."
"You live here?" I asked dumbly.
She nodded. "Two months now. Victor and I got married in March."
Victor. My dad. I’d always called him Dad, but hearing his first na from her lips was weirdly intimate. Like he was a different person with her. Maybe he was.
And yes, I’ll admit it now — I was staring. Not in a creepy way, but in a who the hell is this woman and why is she hot kind of way. Her hair was pulled into a ssy bun, her oversized shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, and she had one of those effortlessly pretty faces that made feel underdressed in my airport hoodie and sweatpants.
And she was smiling at . Just... smiling. Like this wasn’t insane.
I finally managed to put my suitcase down. It thudded louder than it needed to.
She stepped toward , holding out a plate. "Eggs?"
I stared at them. Then at her. Then back at the eggs.
"I’m allergic," I lied.
Her smile didn’t falter. "You sure? I put a lot of love into them."
"I’m also allergic to love."
That made her laugh — a short, warm sound that sohow made the kitchen feel smaller. Or hotter. Or both.
"Well," she said, turning back to the stove, "I’m making toast too. Let know if you’re deathly allergic to gluten."
I was still standing there like a confused ghost when the front door opened behind .
"About ti," ca a familiar voice. "You didn’t text when you landed."
I turned around to see my dad walking in — tailored suit, Bluetooth headset still in his ear, and a face that hadn’t smiled properly since 2008.
"Hey," I said, voice dry.
He nodded at like I was a colleague, not his only child. "Flight was fine?"
"Sure. You got married?"
His lips pressed into a straight line. "Ah. You t Elena."
"You think?"
He looked past and into the kitchen, where Elena was now trying to spread avocado onto toast and dropping half of it on the floor. "She’s... still learning how to work our appliances."
I looked at him. Then at her. Then back at him.
"You married soone who doesn’t know how to use a toaster?"
He ignored and walked past like this was perfectly normal. "I’ll be in my office. Elena, don’t forget your appointnt at 4."
"Yes, dear," she said, mimicking his tone with a faint smile.
And just like that, he was gone.
I turned back to Elena. She looked down at her toast, then at .
"I know what you’re thinking," she said.
"Do you?"
She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms — which made the oversized shirt ride a little higher on her thighs and I imdiately regretted looking down. "You’re wondering if I’m a gold-digger."
I held up both hands. "Hey, I’m not judging—"
"—Or maybe you’re wondering if I’m your new evil stepmother who’s going to ruin your life, take over your inheritance, and poison your cereal."
"Wow. Specific."
She winked. "You’re not the first college kid to walk into this house and look at like I’m about to marry into a Netflix true-cri docuntary."
I didn’t have a coback for that, so I sat at the kitchen table like I belonged there. Like this wasn’t the most bizarre morning of my life.
She poured orange juice into two glasses and handed one. "Truce?"
I took it. "Temporary ceasefire."
She grinned. "I’ll take it."
We drank in silence for a mont. I kept sneaking glances at her, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She did.
"You know I’m not trying to replace your mom, right?" she said softly.
I flinched. "Good. Because my mom left when I was seven. Not much to replace."
Her face changed. The smile faded a bit, replaced by sothing more real.
"I’m sorry," she said.
"It’s fine."
She didn’t press, and I appreciated that. Most people liked to dig when they heard "my mom left." Elena just nodded and went back to her toast.
Which, by the way, she still hadn’t finished. Half was hanging off the plate, soaked in avocado like a science experint gone wrong.
I watched her take a bite and imdiately regret it.
She winced. "Okay, yeah. That’s disgusting."
I laughed. Actually laughed. And I hadn’t done that in this house in a long ti.
She looked surprised. "That’s a nice sound. You should do it more often."
I shook my head. "You’re weird."
"I’m delightful."
"I didn’t say that."
She smirked, raising an eyebrow. "But you’re thinking it."
And sohow, I was.
Later that afternoon, I sat in my old bedroom and stared at the ceiling, still processing the events of the morning.
My stepmom was hot.
My dad didn’t tell he got married.
And the house slled like cinnamon shampoo and burned avocado.
I was ho for the sumr.
And it was going to be a very, very weird ride.
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