“They aren’t all your children,” he snapped.
The words left his mouth before he could soften them.
There it was.
Clean.
Ugly.
Final.
My stepchildren had lived with me half the week for five years. I packed lunches, went to parent-teacher meetings, sat through sick nights, bought Halloween costumes, and held Sophie when her biological mother missed another school play. They called me Rachel, not Mom, but love does not need a title to become real.
I hung up.
