Six weeks ago, my four-year-old daughter Tess casually mentioned her “other mom,” and everything I thought I knew about my life shattered quietly, without drama or hysterics.
We were driving home from preschool when she asked, “Mommy, will you cry when I go to the ocean with Dad and my other mom?” The sunlight filtering through the car window seemed to freeze in place.
“Your… other mom?” My voice was steady, but my grip tightened painfully around the steering wheel.
“Mom Lizzie says you’re the evil one,” Tess said matter-of-factly. “She’s the kind mom. Soon, we’re going to the ocean with Daddy.”
