A week later, I picked up Daisy from school.

We had dinner out and strolled home slowly.

As we exited the elevator,

“Mom,” Daisy gently squeezed my palm.

I felt her small gesture and noticed George at the door. He quickly looked up, meeting my gaze.

“Mommy,” George called out to me with a hopeful glint in his eyes.

I didn’t respond.

He ran up to us, his gaze earnest, calling out again,

“Mom, it’s me, Geordie.”

I held Daisy’s hand with one hand and carried her little backpack with the other, calmly shaking my head.

“I’m not your mom.”

George stubbornly blocked the doorway,

“Mom, are you mad at...