“Yes, ma’am,” the lawyer replied hesitantly.
“Good. I’ll be in touch soon.”
I hung up, leaning back and drawing shaky breaths. My hands were icy, my body weak, but for the first time in what felt like forever, I had made a decision for myself. No more pretending. No more lies.
Later that afternoon, I went to the hospital.
I told myself I wasn’t doing this for Adrian or Seraphine. I was doing it for him—the little boy who called me “Mommy” every night, who made me believe in love, who filled my empty world with laughter. Even if he wasn’t mine, I loved him fiercely.
I stopped in the hallway outside the pediatric wing. Elias’s room door was slightly ajar, and voices floated through the gap.
Seraphine’s soft, controlled tone. Adrian’s calm, deep voice. And then his small, innocent voice—so achingly familiar, so painfully mine in memory.
“But Mom,” Elias said quietly, “why do I have two mommies? Why can’t it just be you… or Mommy Vivienne?”