Eight years. I had carried him, given birth to him, raised him for eight years. He had never once called me "Mama." Never once come to me willingly.
But he would run into Kay's arms, cuddle up to her, let her attend parent-teacher conferences as his mother.
I let out a hollow laugh.
"Fine. It's all my fault. I'll apologize to Miss Pruitt."
I bowed deeply to Kay—ninety degrees—biting the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood, just to keep the tears from falling.
Joel stared at the blood pooling on the floor and found a bandage.
I pulled away before he could touch me and applied it myself.
Johnny muttered that this was boring and dragged Kay off to play with his toys.
Joel assumed I was sulking. His voice softened, coaxing.
"We're setting off fireworks later. I'll let you stand closer to Johnny."
Inside my pocket, my fingers tightened around the good-luck charm I'd planned to give Johnny for the new year.
I nodded.
The New Year's Eve dinner was a picture of family warmth.
Joel had arranged for me to sit closest to Johnny.
I treasured every second, trying to etch his face into my memory.
Johnny noticed my intense gaze and angrily threw down his chopsticks.