Chapter 1

“I wish Sophie was my mom,” my ten-year-old son said, while my husband stood beside her and laughed.

I was three feet away, holding the blueberry pie I had stayed up until midnight making for Noah’s birthday.

Ethan lifted his beer. “At least Fun Sophie doesn’t chase everyone around with a schedule.”

The laughter around the patio died quickly.

One of the other parents looked down at her plate. Our neighbor pretended to be busy opening another bag of chips.

Sophie, my husband’s coworker, tightened the arm she had around Noah’s shoulders.

“Noah, don’t say that,” she said.

But she was still smiling.

Noah looked at me as if I were the one who had embarrassed everyone.

“I was joking, Mom.”

Of course.

It was a joke when my son said he wanted another mother.

It was a joke when my husband explained why.

And somehow, I was supposed to make everyone comfortable again.

So I set the pie on the table.

“Time for candles,” I said.

Ethan clapped his hands. “See? The schedule continues.”

This time, Sophie laughed first.

I pushed ten candles into the pie because blueberry was Noah’s favorite. I had made it after finishing a nine-hour shift at the hospital, buying party supplies, wrapping presents, and cleaning the house.

Ethan had picked up the beer.

Sophie had brought a water gun.

Guess which one Noah had thanked all afternoon.

The children crowded around the table. Lily tugged on my shirt because juice had spilled down the front of her dress.

“Mommy, fix it.”

As I wiped her clean, Ethan led everyone in singing. Sophie stood beside Noah with one hand resting on his chair, close enough that she appeared in every photograph.

I didn’t.

By the time I straightened up, the candles were out.

Sophie had already handed Noah the first slice.

“Extra ice cream,” she announced.

“He’s lactose intolerant,” I said.

Noah groaned. “Mom.”

“It’ll upset your stomach.”

“Fun Sophie lets me have it.”

Ethan put an arm around Sophie. “That’s why she has the title.”

Something inside me went still.

Not because Sophie had overstepped again.

Because Ethan looked proud of her for doing it.

An hour later, Sophie hugged the children goodbye and left before cleanup. Ethan stayed long enough to finish his beer.

Then Noah ran inside clutching his stomach.

Ethan glanced toward the kitchen, where plates, cups, wrapping paper, and melted ice cream covered every surface.

“Can you handle him?” he asked. “I promised I’d return the folding tables.”

“You told him to eat the ice cream.”

“You’re the one who made it a big deal.”

He carried one table to the garage and disappeared.

I spent the next forty minutes sitting on the bathroom floor with Noah. When he finally felt better, he wouldn’t look at me.

“You didn’t have to ruin my party,” he muttered.

I stared at my son.

“I ruined it?”

He shrugged. “Dad said you always shut everything down.”

That hurt more than what he had said outside.

Those weren’t Noah’s words.

Not originally.

After he went to bed, I cleaned the kitchen alone. I scraped dried frosting from the counter and packed away the pie nobody had thanked me for making.

My phone buzzed beside the sink.

Sophie had posted a photograph from the party.

Ethan stood behind her with one hand on Noah’s shoulder and the other around Lily. All four of them were smiling.

I was in the background, blurred, bending over a trash bag.

Her caption read:

My favorite little family.

My thumb hovered over the screen as heat climbed up my throat.

Sophie had posted the photograph.

But my husband was the one who put a heart beneath it.