"So Lily is my sister?"
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I nodded.
The two girls looked at each other for a long moment. Then Lily asked the question I had been dreading.
"Who am I supposed to call Mom?"
The room fell silent.
Olivia burst into tears. So did I.
Because there wasn't an easy answer. Life had stolen many years from us, and nothing could give them back.
Then Lily crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Olivia.
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"I don't care what the paperwork says," she whispered. "You're my mom."
Olivia cried harder.
And strangely, I wasn't hurt. Because she was right. Biology matters, but so do nearly two decades of bedtime stories, scraped knees, school plays, and unconditional love.
Olivia hadn't stolen my daughter.
Someone else had done that. Olivia had simply spent years raising her.
The months that followed were messy and complicated, but slowly something remarkable happened. The girls grew closer, not because anyone forced them, but because they wanted to.
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