💖 “I Pretended to Be Her Mom to Keep Her Safe”

I was buying bread when I saw Laura running out of the bakery, tears streaking her face. I’ve known her for years — always in her supermarket uniform, that smile brightening the entire block.

“Laura! What happened?” I called, running after her.

She grabbed me in a hug like we’d known each other our entire lives.

“They’re coming… they’re coming to get me. They say I can’t live alone, that I have to go to… some downtown facility.”

“What? Who says that?”

“A social worker. Someone reported me — said I’m abandoned, that my mom died and I can’t take care of myself. But I work! I have my apartment! I pay my bills!”

At that moment, I noticed a city vehicle parked below. A woman with a clipboard stepped out, walking purposefully toward the building.

I don’t know what possessed me — maybe years of watching Laura fight for independence, maybe just outrage at the injustice — but I leaned close.

“Laura… do you want me to pretend to be your mom?” I whispered.

Her eyes went wide. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Completely. Are you in?” I said, smiling through my own tears.

“Go on,” she whispered.

We approached the social worker together. I put on my best “worried-but-slightly-offended” mother face.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Are you the social services lady?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m looking for Laura Mendez. We’ve received a report…”

“Report? Excuse me, HOW does she live alone?” I interrupted, voice trembling slightly. “I am her mother.”

The woman blinked in confusion.

“Ma’am, our records say her mother passed away three years ago.”

I held my head high. “Oh, please. That was her grandmother. The mother I’m talking about is very much alive. That’s me.”

Laura squeezed my hand, trying not to giggle.

“It’s true,” she confirmed proudly. “This is my mom. The one who’s alive. The other one was my grandma.”

The social worker frowned and flipped through her papers.

“And your name is…?”

“Claudia Mendez… of Fernández,” Laura jumped in, filling in the lie perfectly.

The woman looked unconvinced.

“And why does Laura live alone if you’re alive?”

“Because she’s 32 and fully independent,” I replied. “She works, pays her bills, cooks, cleans, and even lends me money when I’m short at the end of the month.”

Laura nodded seriously. “It’s true! Last month I lent her money for my cat’s vet!”

I rolled my eyes but let her continue.

“We live two blocks apart. I see her daily. She comes over for lunch on Sundays. Want to see pictures?” I asked, pulling out my phone. Sure enough, a photo of our neighborhood birthday party popped up.

“See?” I said. “We’re very close.”

The social worker sighed.

“I understand, ma’am, but I need to verify some information. Your address?”

Laura jumped in with a mischievous grin. “Moreno 847, mommy!”

“Exactly,” I said, smiling through the stress.

“And your documents, ma’am?”

“I left them at home. But come with me — I’ll show you everything in Laura’s apartment. Food, bills, cleanliness, full care — all in order.”

In the elevator, Laura whispered:

“Thank you, Fake Mommy.”

“You’re welcome, my trout daughter,” I whispered back.

The social worker inspected everything — fridge stocked, bathroom spotless, bills on the table, Laura’s work schedule.

“See?” I said. “My daughter is tidier than I ever was at her age. She even has a savings jar!”

Laura giggled. “Mom, don’t tell that!”

“It’s true,” I said, smiling.

Finally, the woman closed her folder. “Well… it seems there was a misunderstanding. Laura has family support and manages herself well.”

“She’s doing EXCELLENT on her own,” I corrected, beaming.

“Alright. I’ll close this case. We’ll follow up in three months, okay?”

“Perfect. I’ll make you coffee,” Laura said proudly.

As soon as the social worker left, Laura and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Can you believe that worked?” she cried, hugging me.

“I can’t,” I admitted. “I’m the worst actress in the world.”

“You were the perfect mom,” she whispered. “Thank you. Really.”

“Next time she comes for a follow-up,” I said, smiling, “we’ll already know each other enough for it not to be a lie. I could be your… godmother. Your best friend.”

Laura’s smile lit the room.

“I’d like that,” she said. “But be warned: I cook terribly on Sundays.”

“Perfect. I’ll bring empanadas.”

And that’s how I ended up with a 32-year-old “adopted” daughter — independent, bright, and more capable than I could have imagined.

Three months later, the social worker returned for the follow-up. He found us drinking mate on Laura’s balcony, arguing about laundry softener.

“Everything alright here?” he asked with a genuine smile this time.

“Everything perfect,” Laura and I said in unison.

And this time… it was the truth.