Marcus was thirty-seven, charming without trying too hard, nb stubborn enough to drive me insane, and the single father of a seven-year-old girl named Sophie.
Sophie was one of the reasons I had married him.
Maybe that sounds strange.
But I had never been one of those women who thought becoming a stepmother was some burden included in the fine print.
I adored that child.
She had missing front teeth, a laugh that filled every room, and a habit of leaving tiny handwritten notes everywhere.
YOU LOOK PRETTY TODAY.
DON’T FORGET MY LIBRARY BOOK.
DAD BURNED THE PANCAKES AGAIN.
For the wedding, she’d insisted on wearing silver sneakers under her flower-girl dress because she said formal shoes were “a trap invented by adults.”
Halfway through the reception, she came racing toward me holding a cupcake with blue frosting smeared across her cheek.
“Elena!”
I bent down just before she crashed into me.
“Careful. Your dad might send me the dry-cleaning bill.”
She giggled and wrapped her arms around my waist.
Then she looked up.
“Do I call you Mom now?”
The question hit harder than I expected.
