Cuck-oo

I think, on reflection, it would have been easier if Isaiah had been a chauvinist. If he'd made crude comments about my appearance, leered a little too long, or smirked in that way some men do when they feel entitled to your attention.

If he had been obvious, I would have known what to do. I would have frowned, called him out, told him to leave. There would have been clarity. Boundaries. Safety.

But Isaiah was not that kind of man.

He was clean-cut, charming. He had that understated scent—like lavender with a hint of something richer, something grounded. Not overpowering, just... present. His clothes were neat. His demeanor composed. His hands were steady. There was no arrogance, no flash, nothing I could point to and say: this is why I don't trust him.

And that was the problem.

He paid his rent on time. He kept things tidy. He fixed things before I even noticed they were broken. He didn’t make me feel small, or ridiculous, or like I was in his way. He made me feel seen. And worse—he made me feel valued.

Mothers like me, worn by years of invisible work, are vulnerable to that kind of attention. We’re so used to being overlooked, so used to hiding ourselves under responsibility and practicality, that when someone finally sees us, we forget what caution looks like.

Isaiah was a master of subtlety. Never overt. Never disrespectful. Always just a touch too kind. A little too helpful. The kind of man who holds your gaze half a beat too long, and then looks away like he's ashamed of himself. You start thinking he's noble. Self-restrained. Steeped in passion, but good.

My children adored him. Liza, my eldest, flirted with all the bravado of someone who thinks she’s invincible. He never encouraged it, but he never embarrassed her either. I respected him for that. Loretta, my youngest daughter, curled up beside him like a kitten when he joined us on the sofa. He brushed her hair one morning when I was too busy, and she sat perfectly still for him. That had never happened before.

Even my husband, Ivor, was won over. Slowly, grudgingly. Isaiah knew how to play harmless. How to disappear into the background while becoming essential. His initials appeared on the mailbox one day. Just quietly etched alongside ours. Ivor didn’t notice at first. When he did, he smiled and said it made Isaiah feel like part of the family.

It should have been a warning.

Things started going wrong for Ivor. A twisted knee. A fall from a ladder. Small things, but they added up. He was around less. Isaiah was always there.

By the time I realised I had a crush, it was too late. Isaiah knew. He'd known long before I did. And he used it. With every loaded silence, every small glance, he pulled the strings tighter.

We never saw it coming.

And that was exactly how he planned it.

We never saw it coming.
And that was exactly how he planned it.

The day Ivor was hospitalized for a dizzy spell—nothing serious, the doctors said—I came home to find Isaiah in the kitchen, making tea. My mug sat on the counter, already filled the way I liked it: strong, no sugar, a splash of oat milk. I stared at it too long. He noticed.

“You look tired,” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek.

I flinched. Not visibly, not enough for him to apologize. But inside, something bristled. That touch had crossed a line, but only just. Only enough to make me doubt my own discomfort.

I told myself it was kindness. That he was being helpful. That he didn’t mean anything by it.

But then I started catching him watching me.

Not like a man watching a woman, but like a thief watching a door he’s already unlocked. Waiting.

One evening, Liza came home from school earlier than usual and found Isaiah sitting alone in the living room with Loretta asleep on his lap. Nothing inappropriate—at least not outwardly—but her eyes narrowed. Later that night, she asked me why Isaiah was always around.

I told her he was just helping out. That we needed the support. That Ivor trusted him.

She didn’t say anything, but I saw it in her face: doubt, discomfort. The same unease that had started blooming in my chest.

By then, I had stopped letting Isaiah stay past dinner. I told him I needed more space, that the girls were getting older and it was better for everyone. He nodded, agreeable as always. But something in his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Two weeks later, Loretta had a nightmare.

She screamed loud enough to wake the whole house. When I ran to her room, she was trembling and soaked in sweat. She couldn’t form words—just clung to me and cried.

She said the man in her dream had kind hands. That he told her to keep secrets. That he whispered things that made her feel cold.

I sat with her all night, trying not to cry.

In the morning, I called Isaiah. Told him not to come by anymore.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask why. He simply said, “I understand.”

But the worst part?

He sounded disappointed. Not in me. In the timing. As if I’d ruined something carefully built. As if I’d strayed from the script.

That was when I finally admitted to myself: Isaiah had never been safe.

He had never been just kind. Just helpful. Just anything.

He had been studying us. Learning our rhythms. Finding the cracks and widening them.

He was grooming us.

Not in the overt, monstrous way people warn you about—but in the slow, measured way predators operate when they want to be adored first, feared later.

I filed a police report. There was nothing concrete. No proof. Just a series of details that, when lined up, looked like coincidence. Like paranoia. Like a mother with too much imagination.

But I kept going.

I told the neighbors. I warned the school. I changed the locks.

And then, one day, he was gone.

No forwarding address. No goodbye. Just an empty room where his things used to be. He vanished the way he came—quietly, politely, completely.

Sometimes I wonder how close we came to real disaster.

Sometimes I think we were already living inside it.

And sometimes, I lie awake at night, wondering whose house Isaiah is in now. Whose children he's watching. Which mother he's charming. How long before she wakes up the way I did—too late, too ashamed, and aching with the weight of almost.

The story end kay mujay pata lagay kay yahatak story hay.