For the rest of the week they stuck to me like shadows. They chose the seat beside me at lunch, stayed by my side during activities, and talked to me constantly with the openness children show when they feel safe.
And every single time they addressed me, they said “Mom.”
On the third afternoon, while we were stacking blocks together, the smaller one spoke quietly.
“Why didn’t you come to get us all these years? We missed you.”
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“I’m Kelly. And she’s my sister, Mia. The lady in our house showed us your picture and told us to find you.”
My hand froze on the block.
“What lady?”
“The lady at home,” Kelly replied simply. Then she added in the blunt honesty only a child has, “She’s not our real mom. She told us that.”
The tower of blocks toppled over.
Neither of us moved to rebuild it.
Later that afternoon, a woman I assumed was their mother arrived to pick them up. The moment I saw her, my stomach dropped.
I recognized her.
