The Other Mommy In Her Essay

When the parent-teacher conference ended, I stayed in that tiny, cramped plastic chair for a long moment. I knelt down by my daughter’s side and asked her, my voice a forced whisper, what the "other mommy" in her essay looked like.

Sophie blinked her big, innocent eyes. "She’s the lady Daddy takes me to see every week. He told me I have to call her Mommy, too."

Outside the school gates, Thomas was leaning against the SUV, looking every bit the doting suburban father. He flashed that easy, crooked smile of his and asked if the teacher had liked Sophie’s writing.