The kitchen went very quiet.
And Tara, finally out of cards, did the last thing she had. She turned from me to the boys, to Mason and Micah standing shoulder to shoulder by the counter, and she went for their hearts.
“Boys,” she said, tears coming now, and maybe some of them were even real. “I’m still your mother. Blood is blood. Whatever papers he has, I’m the woman who brought you into this world. Doesn’t that mean anything? Don’t you want a mom?”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Mason — steady, thoughtful Mason, four minutes older — stepped forward.
“We already have a parent,” he said. “He’s standing right there. He did the diapers and the midnight feedings and the ER at two in the morning. He tied our ties tonight. He filled two college funds painting fences. He’s been to every game, every concert, every parent-teacher conference, for seventeen years.” His voice didn’t shake. “You keep saying blood is blood. But blood didn’t warm our bottles. Blood didn’t stay. He did.”
