After signing the divorce papers, I went back to Ethan’s to pack. He leaned in the doorway, smirking, as I boxed every pot and pan I’d ever bought. “For someone getting divorced, you look more like you’re looting the place,” he sneered. “What’s next? The toilet?” He always spoke with such venom. I used to shout back, but not anymore. We were done. My silence seemed to infuriate him. He turned and yelled into the house, “Rick! Get your piggy bank—your mother bought that too.” Soon, little footsteps approached, and a boy ran out holding a ceramic pig. He held it out to me. “Mom,” he said flatly, “I know you’re broke. Take this for bus fare. But promise you won’t come back. Don’t bother me, Dad, or Aunt Beth.” Hearing my son mention his father’s mistress used to feel like a knife to the gut. But now, I just smiled, knelt, and ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry,” I said softly. “Even if you came back begging on your knees, I would never return.” 1 After I spoke, I took the piggy bank from Rick’s hands. Then, I simply let it slip from my fingers. The ceramic shattered on the hardwood floor, a perfect metaphor for the five years of love I’d poured into my son. He came from my own body, yet our bond had rotted to the core. Rick stared at me, his eyes wide with shock. I just offered him a cold, mocking smile. Grabbing my suitcase in one hand and the heavy box in the other, I walked out of that house for the last time. As soon as I reached the street, I hailed a cab and headed for the train station. On the way, the kid-friendly smartwatch I’d bought him started calling me, over and over. I had no idea what he wanted. It used to be that no matter what I was doing—in a meeting, in the bathroom, fast asleep—I would always answer his call. This time, I blocked his number. What was there to talk about? I remembered his fifth birthday like it was yesterday. His face was aglow with excitement as he made his wish. “Mommy,” he’d said, “you know how you read in that picture book that you’d make any wish of mine come true? Is that right?” “So for my wish,” he’d continued, his eyes sparkling with innocent cruelty, “I want a new mom. I don’t want you anymore. I want Aunt Beth to be my mom. Can you do that?” The color drained from my face. Beside him, Ethan let out a derisive laugh. “See, Amy? You’re just so unlikable, even your own son wants to trade you in.” He’d grinned. “You should be grateful I stuck with you for seven years without doing the same.” His words had felt like stones in my throat, and I’d fought back the tears that threatened to spill. Then Rick, my own son, had twisted the knife. “Dad, why are you even talking to her? A nagging woman like her doesn’t deserve to be loved by anyone.” So, a child like that? Why would I ever want him back? Besides, at the end of the long journey ahead of me, Rick was gone. And another child, one who also called me "Mommy," was waiting. 2 The journey was grueling. An eight-hour train ride, a four-hour bus journey, and the last thirty minutes on the back of a sputtering motorbike. I finally arrived at my destination. But just as I was about to push open the gate to find the little girl, my phone rang. It was Ethan. My first instinct was to hang up. But he was relentless. I’d decline the call, and he’d immediately call back. Finally, I snapped and answered. His angry voice shot through the receiver. “Amy, what the hell are you doing? Why did it take you so long to answer? Rick has a fever!” Hearing those words—Rick has a fever—my heart clenched instinctively. A mother’s reflex, buried deep. I remembered when I was pregnant with him. Ethan’s business had just collapsed, and he’d sunk into a deep depression. I spent my days fending off his creditors and my nights trying to manage his dark moods, my own body flooded with anxiety. As a result, Rick arrived early, at thirty-five weeks. My water broke first. I was frantic, pounding on Ethan’s bedroom door, but he was lost in his illness, refusing to answer or open up. So I had to grab the hospital bag myself, stumble down the stairs with amniotic fluid soaking my legs, and hail my own cab, all while enduring the rhythmic agony of contractions. But I was too late. Rick nearly suffocated inside me. The doctors performed an emergency C-section and saved him, but he still spent a month in an incubator. Even after he came home, his premature birth left him fragile. He was constantly sick, his tiny hands, feet, and head a roadmap of needle pricks from IVs. Every time he cried in pain, I felt a wave of guilt so profound I wished it were me lying there instead. Over the years, worrying about him, hurting for him—it had become part of my very bones. So even though I wanted to scream back at Ethan—We’re divorced, remember? You have full custody. You’re the one who added that clause to the papers saying I couldn’t see him unless it was an emergency, so his fever is your problem!—the words got tangled up with that deep-seated maternal instinct. What came out instead was a sigh. “Ethan, take his temperature. If it’s over 101.5, give him the children’s ibuprofen.” My voice was automatic, tired. “It’s in the living room cabinet, third shelf. The dosage is on the bottle, follow it exactly.” “If it’s not that high, there are cooling patches on the same shelf. Stick one on his forehead and wipe him down with a lukewarm cloth.” “After that, give him 10ml of the cold medicine from the orange box. No more than 10ml.” “And if his fever spikes to 103 tonight, you have to take him to the hospital.” I was meticulous, first because Rick’s weak constitution meant a small mistake could make things much worse, and second, because I hoped that if I taught Ethan how to do it this one time, he would never have to call me again. But my careful explanation only fueled his anger. “You think I’m a damn doctor? You think I can just follow a list of instructions?” he roared. “And what kind of mother are you, giving orders over the phone instead of getting your ass back here to take care of your son?” His shouting was so familiar. I squeezed the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure. This wasn't the first time. It was an old, ugly pattern. After his business failed and depression took hold three years ago, he’d refused to work, refused to earn a single dollar. To keep us afloat and care for a baby, I started running food deliveries by day and ghostwriting academic papers by night. I even timed my deliveries so I could race home every two hours to breastfeed. But even in those two-hour windows, Ethan wouldn’t watch Rick. I’d come home to his bitter reproaches and a baby wailing in a diaper heavy with his own filth, his little hands red from chewing them in hunger. After eight months of this hell, I finally broke. One day, I came home to find Rick screaming, a terrible rash blooming from a soiled diaper Ethan hadn't bothered to change. In a blind rage, I slapped him. Hard. “You have depression, Ethan, you’re not a paraplegic!” I’d shrieked, my voice raw and hysterical. “Your son is starving to death! Can’t you at least stir some formula or change a damn diaper?” He never forgave me for that slap. He stormed out and didn’t come back for a week. When he did, he started looking for work, eventually starting another business that succeeded. But from that day on, he hated me. Every word he spoke to me was either a criticism or a thinly veiled insult, as if forcing a man with depression to provide for his family was the most unforgivable sin in the world. For years, I put up with it, all for Rick, for the idea of a complete family. But we were divorced now. And still, he felt entitled to berate me. I was about to unleash years of pent-up fury, to finally tell him where he could go. But before I could get a word out, another voice cut through the line—a soft, gentle one. “Ethan, I’m here,” it said. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this. Rick will be fine.” The sound of that voice sent a familiar shard of ice through my heart. It was Beth. Ethan’s therapist during his depression. His affair partner. The woman my son wished was his mother. I was the one who found her for him, scouring listings and reviews for the best psychologist. Each session cost a thousand dollars, money I scraped together from the very bottom of our savings. But did Ethan appreciate my sacrifice? No. He saved all his gratitude for Beth, the woman who had “extended a hand of friendship and pulled him from the depths of his despair.” After his business took off again, he showered her with gifts: limited-edition handbags, expensive jewelry. A single phone call from her, and he would drop everything and run. Even when I caught them together in a five-star hotel room, he had dressed himself with infuriating calm. “Amy, what’s the big deal?” he’d said, buttoning his shirt. “When I was at my lowest, you were pushing me to go out and work. If it wasn’t for Beth, I’d probably be dead. Now get out. Beth and I have dinner reservations.” And Rick… Rick was just the same. He was a naturally mischievous kid, so I was strict with him. When he did something wrong, no amount of crying or tantrums would stop me from disciplining him. But Ethan couldn’t stand it. “All you ever do is lecture him,” he’d grumble. “Come on, Rick, ignore your mother. Dad will take you to see Aunt Beth.” And off they’d go, father and son, leaving my half-finished lecture hanging in the air. They’d go to Beth’s, and the three of them would act like a perfect little family, eating McDonald’s and KFC and doing all the things I’d forbidden. Because of that, Rick decided I was the bad mom. Only Beth was worthy of the title. The memory of it all was suffocating. As Beth’s voice soothed Ethan, I heard Rick in the background. “Mommy Beth, you’re here! I missed you so much!” Then, the line went dead. I listened to the dial tone, and a bitter laugh escaped my lips. My fault, I thought. For daring to care. Just as that familiar, needle-like ache for Ethan and Rick began to prick at my heart again, a small, timid voice drifted from the dilapidated country house in front of me. “Hello? Who are you looking for? What are you doing outside our house?”
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