Wendy left before the ceremony ended, slipping out a side door without saying goodbye.
That evening, as the four of us celebrated with pizza in our living room, David’s phone buzzed with a text from his mother: “I hope you’re happy with your choice.”
He showed it to me, then typed back: “I am. It’s time you made yours.”
We didn’t see Wendy for six months after that. When she finally called, she asked to visit. Then, she arrived with two identical gift bags — one for Liza and one for Sophie.
It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t acceptance. But it was a start.
Blood doesn’t make a family. Love does. And sometimes, it takes a child to teach an adult what that really means.
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