MY SON THREW A TANTRUM IN WALMART—AND THE POLICE SHOWED UP THINKING I WAS KIDNAPPING HIM

My son, Zeke, is six. He’s got a wild imagination, a love for gummy worms, and a scream that could wake the dead. I know tantrums are part of the deal with kids, but nothing prepared me for what happened last Saturday.

We were at Walmart picking up groceries, and I said no to a toy dinosaur. Just one word—“no”—and he lost it. I mean full-body meltdown, throwing himself on the floor, yelling things like “Don’t take me!” and “I want to go back to my REAL mom!”

Which… yeah. Sounds horrifying if you’re a stranger walking by.

I tried to stay calm. Scooped him up, carried him kicking and screaming toward the exit like a sack of potatoes. He was yelling, flailing, even clawing at the air. I didn’t realize how bad it looked until two employees blocked the door and asked me to wait.

Then I saw the flashing lights outside.

An officer walked in, hand on his belt, asking me for ID. My hands were shaking so bad I dropped my wallet. Zeke, of course, had gone totally silent by then—just hiccuping little sobs against my shoulder like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

I had to explain the whole thing in front of everyone. Show pictures of Zeke and me, even pull up his birth certificate from my emails. People were staring. One woman was filming.

The officer eventually apologized, but not before asking me why my son would say something like that in the first place.

Thing is… I’ve been hearing that kind of stuff from Zeke more lately. “You’re not my real mom,” or “I don’t belong here.” At first I thought it was just make-believe.

But now I’m starting to wonder where he’s getting it from.

When we got home, Zeke crawled into bed without another word. Normally after an episode like that, he’d beg for ice cream or try to distract me with a hug. This time? Nothing. It felt heavier than usual, like something deeper was going on.

I sat beside him, brushing his hair out of his face. “Hey buddy, can we talk about today?”

He rolled over, clutching his favorite stuffed dog—a scruffy old thing named Patches—and mumbled, “Do you hate me?”

My heart sank. “Of course not, sweetheart. Why would you think that?”

His voice was small, barely audible. “Because I’m bad.”

Those three words hit me like a punch to the gut. Where was all this coming from? Sure, Zeke had moments of defiance—he was six—but he wasn’t bad. And yet, hearing him say those words made me question everything. Was I doing enough as a parent? Had I missed some crucial sign?

“I don’t think you’re bad,” I told him firmly. “Not even a little bit. But sometimes when people feel scared or upset, they say things they don’t mean. Do you feel scared right now?”

He nodded, tears pooling in his big brown eyes. “I don’t wanna be taken away.”

Taken away? What did that even mean? I pressed gently, afraid to push too hard but needing answers. “Who do you think might take you away?”

He hesitated, then whispered, “The other mom.”

A chill ran down my spine. “What other mom?”

“The one who talks to me sometimes.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The phrase “the other mom” echoed in my head like a creepy nursery rhyme. Who—or what—was Zeke talking about? Was this some elaborate game born out of loneliness? Or was there something darker at play?

The next morning, I called Dr. Patel, Zeke’s pediatrician. She listened patiently as I recounted the incident at Walmart and Zeke’s cryptic confession. Her advice surprised me: “It sounds like he might be processing emotions through storytelling. Kids often invent scenarios to express feelings they can’t articulate. But given the intensity of his statements, it might help to speak with a child psychologist.”

Reluctantly, I scheduled an appointment. In the meantime, I decided to dig deeper myself. Over dinner that evening, I casually asked Zeke, “Tell me more about the other mom. What does she look like?”

He chewed thoughtfully on a carrot stick before answering. “She’s tall, with long hair. She wears sparkly dresses. Sometimes she tells me stories about faraway places.”

“And where does she come from?” I probed.

“She says she lives in a castle,” Zeke replied matter-of-factly. “But she misses me because I left.”

This conversation only deepened my confusion. Was this just fantasy, or was Zeke grappling with something unresolved? Determined to find clarity, I reached out to Mrs. Winslow, Zeke’s kindergarten teacher. Maybe she’d noticed changes in his behavior at school.

Mrs. Winslow invited me to her classroom the following afternoon. As soon as I arrived, she handed me a stack of drawings Zeke had done recently. Most featured castles, stars, and a woman with flowing hair. One picture stood out: it showed me holding Zeke’s hand, while the mysterious “other mom” stood off to the side, watching us.

“It’s almost like he’s trying to reconcile two worlds,” Mrs. Winslow observed softly. “Have you considered whether he might have memories from before he came to live with you?”

Her words stopped me cold. Zeke had been adopted when he was three. His biological mother had struggled with addiction and ultimately relinquished custody. We’d always been open about his adoption, framing it as a loving choice meant to give him a better life. Could these fantastical tales be his way of piecing together fragments of his early childhood?

The psychologist confirmed my suspicions during our session a week later. Dr. Harper explained that adoptive children sometimes create imaginary figures to bridge gaps in their understanding of identity. For Zeke, the “other mom” likely represented his longing to connect with his roots—not necessarily his biological mother herself, but the idea of belonging somewhere else.

Dr. Harper suggested involving Zeke in activities that celebrated his history, like cooking dishes from his birth culture or reading books about adoption. She also encouraged open dialogue, emphasizing that curiosity about his past didn’t diminish his bond with me.

Armed with this insight, I decided to take action. That weekend, I baked Zeke’s favorite cookies and sat him down for a heart-to-heart. “You know how we’ve talked about your adoption before?”

He nodded cautiously.

“Well, I think maybe the ‘other mom’ you talk about is your way of wondering about your story. And that’s okay! Everyone has a story, and yours is really special.”

His eyes lit up. “So she’s real?”

“In a way,” I said carefully. “She’s part of your imagination, but she helps you understand things about yourself. Like how brave you are for starting a new chapter with me.”

For the first time in weeks, Zeke smiled genuinely. “Does that mean I can still visit the castle sometimes?”

“Absolutely,” I assured him. “As long as you promise to bring me along.”

From that day forward, Zeke seemed lighter. The tantrums became less frequent, replaced by imaginative play that included both me and the “other mom.” Together, we built castles out of blocks and read bedtime stories about heroes finding their way home.

Months passed, and Zeke thrived. One evening, as we cuddled on the couch, he turned to me and said, “Mom? I don’t need the other mom anymore.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, masking my surprise.

“Because you’re already my real mom.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “And you’re my real son. Always.”

In that moment, I realized something important: being a parent isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about listening, learning, and growing alongside your child. Zeke taught me that love transcends biology—it’s built through trust, patience, and shared experiences.

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