My Stepmother's Betrayal

The morning after the funeral felt even heavier than the day itself. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained draped in a dull grey, as if mourning hadn't ended with the burial.

I lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling — the same ceiling I'd grown up under. But it felt foreign now. Everything did.

The house was too quiet. Too hollow. Every creak of the floorboards echoed like a memory. I wandered from room to room, each corner soaked in her presence. This was where we had laughed, argued, shared secrets.

And now… she was gone.

Even saying it in my head didn't make it feel real.

I reached for the silver locket she gave me on my twelfth birthday. Her initials — J.O., Josephine Orakwue — were engraved on the back. Inside was a picture of us, smiling, dimples identical. It felt like a lifetime ago.

I curled into her favorite chair, wrapped in the fading scent of her perfume. Memories crashed over me — her laugh, her warmth, the way she always made me feel safe. But they were stained now, haunted by hospital rooms, whispered goodbyes, and the emptiness she left behind.

Then I remembered something. A moment I'd buried.

Her voice, weak but urgent, in that hospital room:

"Trust no one, Nina. Not even Dad."

I had brushed it off then, blaming the medication. But now? That whisper echoed like a warning.

"Nina?" Dad stood in the doorway, concern in his eyes. "You okay? You've been so quiet."

I nodded. "I'm fine." I wasn't.

He walked over and sat beside me, pulling me into a side hug. "We'll get through this. Together."

I wanted to believe him. But doubt had already taken root.

My eyes fell on the coffee table — on a small, leather-bound book I hadn't noticed before.

Mom's journal.

The cover was worn, her scent still clinging to it. Without a word, I picked it up, hands trembling. I knew I had to read it. I needed to.

The pages crackled as I opened it.

Fragmented entries filled the journal, her handwriting hurried and uneven. Notes about her treatments, her fears, her suspicions. My chest tightened with every line.

One entry stopped me cold:

"I'm getting close to the truth. I know Mirabel's involved. I have to be careful."

Mirabel?

A chill slid down my spine. What did she have to do with this?

The deeper I read, the darker it got — secret meetings, hidden documents, coded messages. She had been investigating something. Someone.

The last entry read:

"I have to stop now. They're watching me. I love you, Nina."

Tears welled up. She knew. She was afraid. And she was trying to protect me.

I closed the journal, heart pounding. Dad appeared again at the doorway.

"You okay? You've been reading for hours."

"I just need a little time," I said quietly.

He nodded. "Take all the time you need, kiddo."

But as I looked at him, I couldn't shake the question:

Could I really trust him?

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, shadows stretched across the room. I heard muffled voices downstairs. Quiet. Urgent.

I crept down the hallway. The voices were coming from the study — the door left slightly ajar.

Dad's voice:

"I just need time, Mirabel. It's too soon to talk about… those things."

Mirabel's silky tone followed:

"I understand, darling. But the house needs managing. Josephine mentioned the business. It's only fair we go through it. Together."

Darling? The business?

What was she doing discussing my mother's affairs?

A floorboard creaked beneath my foot.

Silence.

Seconds later, Mirabel stepped into the hallway. She was dressed in a cream blouse and tailored trousers — far too polished for someone in mourning. Her eyes found mine instantly, and her practiced smile slid into place.

"Nina, dear. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I lied.

"You didn't eat dinner last night."

"I wasn't hungry."

She tilted her head. "Grief is tricky. But you must take care of yourself. Your mother would want that."

That voice again. Sickly sweet. Hollow.

"I'll try," I said, barely above a whisper.

She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small velvet pouch.

"Your mother asked me to give this to you. If anything ever happened to her."

My hands stiffened as I took it. Inside was something familiar.

Her antique jewelry box. The one she never let anyone touch.

Back in my room, I sat on the bed and opened it. Most of the compartments were empty — strange. It used to be full.

Only one thing remained: a torn photograph.

I lifted it carefully. It showed part of my mother's face… and next to her, unmistakably, Mirabel.

But they weren't smiling. My mother looked furious, finger pointed at something outside the frame. The photo had been ripped apart.

On the back, scribbled faintly:

"If anything happens to me, don't trust her."

I dropped the photo like it burned.

The journal. Now this?

My heart slammed in my chest. Could it be true? Could Dad have plotted with Mirabel?

That night, I didn't sleep.

Instead, I opened the journal my mother gave me two birthdays ago. The one filled with poems and silly thoughts — now turned into a record of unraveling truth.

---

June 14th

I don't think Mama's death was natural.

She was strong. Healthy. She had plans — we were supposed to travel to Ghana this year. She couldn't have just died in her sleep like that.

And Mirabel? She's too calm. Too rehearsed.

What is she doing with Mama's will? How did she even get this jewelry box?

And that photo — what happened between them?

Something doesn't add up.

And I'm going to find out the truth.

No matter what it takes.