check in front of me. I stared at it. I’d had grilled chicken and water. But I smiled and said, “Of course.” Then I added, “Actually—I am celebrating something.” Everyone froze. “Ryan and I are adopting. We got the call this morning. We’re matched with a baby girl. She’s being born tomorrow. In Denver.” Silence. Total shock. I looked Cheryl straight in the eye. “So technically, this is my first Mother’s Day.” Then I pulled $25 from my purse—my share—and stood up. “Being childless doesn’t make,
me your wallet. Or your punchline.” I walked out. The next day, I held our daughter, Maya, for the first time. She was tiny, warm, perfect. Her name means “illusion.” Fitting, because for years, I believed real motherhood had to happen a certain way. Cheryl’s way. Painful, biological, narrow. But holding Maya, I finally knew—I am a real mom. No one can take that from me. Not even Cheryl.