My Mother’s Killer Hired Me as Her Son’s Playmate

My mother was once a nanny for a wealthy family, hired to care for the pregnant Rosalind.

Rosalinds position in that house was... delicate. She was like a beautiful canary, kept in a gilded cage.

Out of kindness, my mother warned her that emotions can run high during pregnancy, and that she should stay away from the open-air pool on the top floor.

Rosalind just smiled and nodded, saying she understood.

But the moment my mother presented her with a bowl of restorative broth, Rosalind let out a piercing scream, accusing my mother of pushing her.

Then, she threw herself into the pool, staging a tragic miscarriage.

Because of that venomous lie, my mother was beaten to death.

And Rosalind, playing the part of the grieving victim, married the master of the house, transforming herself into the glamorous lady of the manor.

Four years slipped by.

Rosalinds son was old enough for a playmate, and she chose me from the orphanage, the one who seemed the most obedient and mild-mannered.

She never suspected a thing.

She had no idea that every single day, I would lean in close to her son and whisper, "Your mother is a murderer. She killed my mother."

1.

On the day of my interview, Rosalind sat on an Italian leather sofa that must have cost a fortune, stirring her coffee with practiced elegance. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a face so perfectly preserved it betrayed no hint of time's passage.

"Cici, is it? The director at the orphanage says you're the most well-behaved girl." Her voice was soft as a feather, brushing against my ear.

I kept my head down, my small hands twisting the hem of my worn dress, projecting the perfect image of a timid twelve-year-old orphan.

"Yes, ma'am."

A satisfied smile touched her lips. She gestured toward a small boy peering nervously from the top of the grand staircase. "That's my son, Kevin. He's a bit shy. He needs a patient friend."

I followed her gaze. Kevin was dressed in a crisp little tweed suit, his skin as pale and perfect as porcelain.

He was the prize Rosalind had won with my mother's life.

I could still see it, the memory seared into my mind: that rainy night four years ago. Hiding in the utility closet, I watched through the crack in the door as the men who worked for her husband, Alistair Blackwood, dragged my mother's body away. A slick, crimson trail smeared across the polished marble floor.

And Rosalind, nestled in Alistairs arms, sobbed, her tears a picture of tragic beauty.

"Alistair, I'm so scared," she'd cried. "That nanny, she went insane. She tried to harm our baby..."

My mother was dead, her official cause of death ruled "Vicious servant attacks mistress, falls to her death in the ensuing chaos."

And I was sent to the orphanage.

Now, my mother's killer sat before me, deciding my fate with the casual air of someone offering charity.

"You'll live here from now on," she said. "Keep Kevin company, make him happy, and you will be well taken care of."

I lifted my head and forced a grateful smile. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll take very good care of the young master."

She couldn't see the torrent of hatred swirling behind my lowered eyes.

That night, I moved into a small room in the staff quarters of the Blackwood manor. It was next to the room that had once been my mother's, now crammed with discarded furniture and boxes.

In the dead of night, I slipped inside. Reaching under the dusty bedframe, my fingers found a small wooden box.

Inside was the diary my mother had hidden.

June 3rd: Miss Rosalind was in a foul mood today. Smashed her favorite vase. Mr. Blackwood told me to keep a close eye on her, keep her away from anywhere dangerous.

June 10th: I reminded Miss Rosalind the tiles by the pool are slippery, that a pregnant woman must be careful. She gave me such a sweet smile and said she knew.

June 15th: A strange question from Miss Rosalind today. She asked if someone fell into the water by accident, could it look like they were pushed? It sent a chill down my spine.

The final entry was scrawled in a frantic hand, the ink blurred by water spots.

She said she's going to marry him. She said I'm in the way...

I snapped the diary shut, my nails digging so deep into my palms they nearly drew blood.

The next day, I was in the garden with Kevin.

He shyly offered me a Transformer. "This is for you, Cici."

I took the toy and gave him a small smile. Then I leaned in close, my voice a whisper only he could hear.

"Kevin, did you know? Your mother is a murderer. She killed my mother."

2.

Kevins eyes widened, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. The other toy in his hand clattered to the stone path.

He stared at me like a startled fawn, his lips parting, but no sound came out.

I didn't press him. I simply picked up the fallen toy, brushed off the dirt, and gently placed it back in his hand.

"Want to play cops and robbers?" I asked, my voice light and cheerful.

Fear and curiosity warred on his small face. He didn't nod, didn't shake his head. He just watched me, his mind reeling.

I knew the seed was planted.

From that day on, I found a moment every day to repeat my poison.

When he was building with his blocks. When he was watching cartoons. And at night, the bedtime stories I told were always about wicked stepmothers who murdered innocent people to get what they wanted.

"Cici," he asked one evening, tugging on my sleeve, "why don't the bad people get caught?"

"Because they're very good actors," I said, stroking his hair, my voice a gentle murmur. "They cry and pretend they're the ones who got hurt."

Kevin nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. The next time he looked toward his mother's bedroom, there was a new, questioning glint in his gaze.

Rosalind soon noticed the change in her son.

Kevin wasn't her little shadow anymore. He started to subtly pull away from her hugs, to avoid her touch.

"What's gotten into Kevin lately?" she asked at the dinner table, her brow furrowed. "He's always avoiding me."

I kept my eyes on my plate, shoveling food into my mouth as if I hadn't heard a thing.

Alistair Blackwood, the master of the house, was rarely home, always consumed by his business. He gave his son a brief, disinterested glance. "It's just a phase. He'll get over it."

But Rosalind wasn't convinced. She was a woman wired with suspicion and paranoia.

She suspected one of the staff had been whispering poison in her son's ear.

The next day, Mrs. Gable, the cook, was fired in a storm of fury for dropping a single plate.

Rosalind made an example of her, her cold eyes sweeping over the rest of us. "The Blackwoods do not employ clumsy, gossiping fools."

I lowered my gaze, a chill creeping through me. I knew the warning was meant for me.

That night, as I was telling Kevin a story, he interrupted me.

"Cici... is my mommy... a bad person too?"

I looked into his clear, innocent eyes and answered with a question of my own. "What do you think?"

He looked down, his voice barely a whisper. "She was so mean to Mrs. Gable."

"Some people look like angels on the outside," I said softly, "but on the inside, they have a demon. And demons like to push the people who are kindest to them into hell."

A small tremor ran through Kevin's body.

Later that night, a scream tore through the silent house, jolting me awake.

It came from Rosalind's room.

By the time I rushed out, Alistair was already there, his face a thunderous mask.

Kevin was standing by Rosalind's bed. In his small hand, he held a fruit knife, the tip pointed directly at his sleeping mother.

Rosalind was cowering against the headboard, her eyes wide with terror, her voice trembling as she pointed a shaking finger at her son. "What... what are you doing!"

Kevin stared at her, his voice small but steady. "You're a demon. I have to kill you."

3.

Alistair Blackwood's face went rigid with fury.

He snatched the knife from Kevins hand. "Who taught you to say such filth!" he roared.

Kevin burst into terrified sobs, pointing at me. "It was Cici... she said it..."

Every head in the room turned. Every eye was on me.

Rosalind lunged toward me as if I were a lifeline, her voice a screech. "I knew it was you, you little viper! What have you been planning? Teaching my son to kill me!"

She raised her hand to strike me.

I didn't flinch. I just stared up at Alistair, my eyes wide with a carefully crafted blend of innocence and terror.

Crack.

The slap never landed.

Alistair had seized her wrist, his voice like ice. "That's enough! You're scaring the child."

He turned his sharp, cutting gaze on me. "Explain yourself. Now."

I began to tremble, tears spilling from my eyes like broken pearls. "I... I don't know..." I choked out between sobs. "I only told the young master the story of Snow White... I said... I said the Queen was a bad person... I didn't know he would..."

My words dissolved into ragged, heartbroken sobs, as if I were the victim of some terrible injustice.

Kevin was still crying, but seeing me even more distraught than he was seemed to confuse him.

Rosalind was hysterical. "She's lying! He said 'demon,' not 'Queen'!"

"Maybe... maybe the young master misheard me..." I stammered, casting a timid, tearful glance at Kevin. "Young master, please tell Mr. Blackwood. Did I ever teach you to say those things?"

Kevin looked at me, then at his furious mother and his stone-faced father. His wails subsided.

He hesitated.

He was only five, the line between stories and reality still a blur. In his confused little mind, maybe I really had only told him a story.

"I... I don't remember..." he mumbled.

Rosalind looked as if she'd been struck. "You don't remember? He was about to stab me in my sleep! Alistair! This little beast has twisted your son's mind, and you're still protecting her?"

"Be quiet!" Alistair snarled, the disgust in his eyes now unmistakable. His reputation was paramount. The scandal of a son trying to murder his mother was something he would never allow to see the light of day.

He fixed his cold stare on me. "You'll be back at the orphanage by morning."

My heart sank.

Have I failed?

Two guards grabbed my arms and dragged me back to my room.

Rosalind followed, closing the door behind her. A triumphant, vicious smirk played on her lips.

"You want to play games with me, you little bitch? You're not even in my league." She stalked toward me, leaning down to grip my chin with her long, scarlet-tipped fingers. "You're just like your dead mother. Trash. I got rid of her, and now I'm getting rid of you."

I looked up at her and, to her surprise, I smiled.

"So you admit it."

Her smirk faltered.

"You admit you killed my mother," I said, each word clear and deliberate.

Her expression flickered before hardening into a sneer. "And what if I did? Who's going to believe a little gutter rat like you? Alistair? He'll just think you're insane."

She released me, wiping her fingers as if she'd touched something foul. "Enjoy rotting in that cesspool of an orphanage for the rest of your life."

She turned to leave.

"Aren't you curious," my calm voice cut through the air, "why Kevin would suddenly grab a knife?"

Curiosity, or perhaps a flicker of fear, made her pause.

I slowly pulled a small, digital voice recorder from my pocket and pressed play.

My own voice filled the silent room, clear as a bell. "...some people look like angels on the outside, but on the inside, they have a demon. And demons like to push the people who are kindest to them into hell."

Then came Kevin's small, questioning voice. "...is my mommy... a bad person too?"

Rosalind spun around, her eyes locked on the small device in my hand, a mask of pure horror spreading across her face.