Seventeen years passed.
The night before Ruth’s prom, I stood in her doorway, phone in hand, ready to take photos like I had with Stephanie years earlier.
Ruth sat on the edge of her bed in her dress, shoulders tense.
“MOM,” she said quietly, “YOU ARE NOT COMING TO MY PROM.”
I laughed softly, confused. “What? Of course I am.”
She finally looked at me. Her eyes were red. Her jaw was tight.
“No,” she said. “You’re not. And after prom… I’m leaving.”
The word hit me like a slap.
“Leaving? Why?” I asked, my voice barely steady.
She swallowed hard. “Stephanie told me the truth about you.”
The room went cold.
“What truth?” I whispered.
Her voice cracked. “That you’re not my real mom. That you only adopted me because you made some promise to God. That I was… a backup.”
I dropped the phone.
