I pulled out my phone to check the time and, without thinking, opened Instagram. I knew I shouldn’t have. But I did.
The first story at the top was hers. A short video filmed just minutes before, showing the kitchen inside—Chloe laughing beside Janine, both wearing aprons, stirring pasta sauce. The caption read:
“Mom’s cooking her famous lasagna again.
Nobody does it like her.”
Mom. I froze. I stared at the screen, blinking hard, hoping I had misread.
But there it was. Mom. Not Janine.
Not even “bonus mom,” a term Chloe had used in the past. Just mom. Full stop.
A title I had bled for, reduced to a caption for someone who came in halfway through the story. My hand trembled as I tucked the phone back into my purse. My eyes burned.
But I refused to cry. Not here. Not now.
I took a deep breath, straightened my blouse, and walked toward the house. The place was buzzing. Music pulsed from the backyard, mingling with bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses.
