I barely remember locking my office computer before I ran to the parking lot. All I could hear was my son Jonathan’s small, shaken voice: “Mommy, the woman in the living room says she is my real mom.”
That terrified me.
As I drove, my mind kept building explanations and rejecting every one.
Maybe Jonathan had misunderstood. Maybe Leo had brought home a coworker with a terrible sense of humor.
“Mommy, the woman in the living room says she is my real mom.”
I called Leo again. No answer. Again at the next red light. Again, when I turned onto our street. He still did not pick up.
That morning had been ordinary. I had kissed Leo and Jonathan goodbye and told them both to enjoy their day together. Leo rarely took time off, and Jonathan had been thrilled to miss school.