I was twelve years old when it happened.
It was a bright, sunny Sunday morning, and the room felt warm, with light passing through my big wall glass window. Usually, it was Gummy, our dog’s bark that would wake me up from my big, fluffy bed.
But today was different. It was my mom.
I was woken by my mom’s thumping against the door, and I saw my dad blocking it. I could see the horror and panic on his face as he searched for something in the room. His responses were rapid, and the door thumped as the knob uncontrollably rattled.
“THAT’S NOT HER!!! SHE’S GOT OUR BABY!!” I heard Mom shout from the other side of the door. My younger sister was beside me, crunching hard with the blanket as she tried to cover half of her face.
“What’s happening, Dad?!” I asked, my voice trembling.
Dad didn’t respond; he just continued looking for something in the room. The thumping grew louder and louder.
“Open the door!!” Mom shouted. “It’s not her!!! That’s not our baby!!!”
I wondered what Mom meant by that. Was she referring to me? To my sister? I didn’t understand. Why was she saying that?
“I’m scared, Jasmine,” my little sister Lily mumbled as she moved closer to me, trying to cover her body and face with the blanket.
Dad continued opening drawers and cabinets in our room until he found something hidden behind the mirrored doors in the washroom. I noticed his hands were bleeding.
“Dad, why are you bleeding?!” I asked, panic starting to creep inside me.
Dad didn’t answer immediately; instead, he wrapped his hands with a bandage. Then, he reached for his phone in his pocket and made a call.
The chaos was overwhelming, and everything sounded loud and unsettling. Even our dog was running around in the yard, scared by the loud thumping against the door.
“Robert, open the door!!!! She’s got our baby!”
The thumping persisted, and I could see the screws of the door lock getting looser with each strike.
“Please come here. My wife is having her episodes again…”
I couldn’t grasp much of what Dad was saying. I was confused and unsure of what was happening. All I knew was that Mom and Dad frequently visited the doctor for check-ups. Mom was sick, but the details were elusive to me. It all started after we went to the beach last summer. Since then, she seemed different. Sometimes, she would just stare at our family picture and act scared when we approached her. Dad always told us to be understanding, reassuring us that Mom was sick and would get better soon.
The thumping grew louder, and my little sister was now crying.
“Laura, please, I’m begging you. You’re scaring the kids.”
“They’re not our kids!!! Robert, I’M NOT CRAZY!!!”
“Laura, please,” Dad pleaded, not giving up by the door.
“Robert, listen to me. I’m not crazy, please believe me. They’re not our kids.”
I didn’t understand why Mom was saying this. Was this what mental illness did to your parent? Fear surged through me, and my heart pounded wildly.
“Please, Laura, please, let’s talk about this.”
Suddenly, the thumping became softer. Mom seemed to be getting calmer. Dad attempted to open the door, but Mom forced her way in, accidentally stabbing Dad’s forearm. He cried out in pain, and Mom rushed toward us, but Dad managed to grab one of her legs while his other arm bled.
We screamed and ran to the side cabinet in terror.
“WHERE DID YOU TAKE MY KIDS!!!!”
“Mom, you’re scaring us,” I cried, bewildered as to why Mom was angry with us, why she was rushing at us.
Through the cabinet door, I could see Dad struggling to restrain Mom.
“Laura! Listen to me. Laura! Laura!”
“No, Robert. They’re demons, Robert. They’re… They… they’re monsters!”
“Laura, please!” Dad was now crying.
“Robert!!!”
I covered my ears while hugging my sister inside the cabinet. Everything just blacked out. I don’t remember much of it. I guess it was just too traumatic for me to remember.
The next thing I recall is the paramedics taking Mom, and Dad coming with them. She was strapped to a white bed while being carried away in an ambulance. Her gaze was intense, fixed on me, and her face showed a mix of anger, fear, and sadness. It was as if mental illness had taken my mom away from us.
“Why don’t you believe me!? Those are not my daughters!!! Those are monsters!!! Monsters!!!! Get away from us!! Where are our daughters!!!”
Those were the last words I remember before they took her away.
Our neighbor temporarily took care of us that night. The next morning, a social worker came and took us to Dad in a clinic. I remember talking to the social worker for the rest of the day. He explained that Mom was very sick and needed to stay in the hospital for a while. He said she had a mental problem and believed that we were replaced. They mentioned something called Capgras syndrome. I guess that’s the name of it; it’s what makes Mom think we were replaced.
Ten years have passed, and I’m already 22 years old. I can still vividly remember the details of that incident. Eventually, my parents got divorced, and my mom’s condition continued to deteriorate. It was too much for our family, and my sister and I had to go through trauma therapies as we grew up. Now, I’m working, and my sister is in college. I still sometimes miss Mom, and her haunting words echo in my mind.
“Where are our daughters?”
I wonder the same thing sometimes.