The Only Mother He Ever Knew

Simon looked at her for the first time, his expression full of a haunting, quiet sadness.

“Joanna was young too, and she never once asked for permission to be the person who saved me,” he said, and that line hit the room harder than any shout could have.

“Where were you when I had that severe allergic reaction in the third grade?” Simon demanded, stepping closer to the edge of the stage.

“Where were you when we couldn’t afford the registration fee, and Joanna had to sell the only piece of jewelry she owned to make sure I could go to class?”

Denise opened her mouth to argue, but no words came, as if her voice had been stolen by the weight of her own history.

The cake sat on Dorothy’s lap, the red icing melting and starting to stain the cardboard box, turning the words “real mother” into a smudged, ugly smear of regret.