The next day, moving trucks arrived at my small apartment. I watched men carry boxes past the framed photos of Ethan, past the little signs of a life I had built around him.
I didn’t take everything.
Some memories stay. Some you put away.
While the movers worked, my phone rang.
Ethan.
I stared at his name on the screen for a moment before answering. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to hear what kind of concern he had. If it was real concern, it would sound different.
“Mom,” he said immediately. “What’s going on? I went by your apartment and there are trucks outside.”
I kept my voice calm.
“I’m moving, Ethan.”
“Moving where?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was revealing.
“I didn’t think it was necessary,” I replied. “After all, you made it clear at your wedding that I’m not your real mother.”
A long silence filled the line.
“Mom, don’t be dramatic,” he finally said. “You know I love you. Carol is just like a second mother.”
Second mother.
He said it like he was trying to soften the insult with vocabulary.
I felt something settle in my chest, heavy and final.
“If you need to reach me,” I said, “contact Mr. Miller. He has my updated information.”
His voice sharpened. “Why do you have a lawyer?”
“I’m putting my affairs in order,” I replied. “That’s what responsible people do.”
He sounded uneasy now. “Mom, you’re scaring me.”
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t argue. I just told the truth.
“You should be scared,” I said softly. “Not of me. Of what you’ve chosen to become.”
Then I ended the call.
