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The first time she called me Mama Emma, it happened in the middle of the night after a bad dream. James was in the shower, and I sat beside her bed, rubbing her back, whispering soft reassurances until her breathing slowed and steadied. “Thank you, Mama Emma,” she murmured sleepily, already drifting off again. My heart nearly stopped. When James came back, he found us just like that—Sophie asleep against my shoulder, both of us frozen in silence, overwhelmed by the weight of what she’d said.
From that moment on, everything began to move forward with purpose. We started having real conversations—about the future, about adoption, about what forever might look like. One evening at dinner, Sophie casually shortened Mama Emma to just mama, asking me to pass the ketchup as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Later, I gently asked her if she felt okay calling me that. She looked genuinely confused by the question. “You are my mama,” she said simply. “You love me. That’s what mamas do.”
So when Emma’s birthday party came around, I arrived alone, carrying that secret quietly inside me. James stayed home with Sophie, who had a mild cold and needed her afternoon nap—or at least, that’s what everyone believed. The truth was, we’d planned this moment carefully.
Karen hosted the party at her house, exactly as chaotic as you’d expect with three kids under eight. Pink decorations everywhere, a bounce house in the yard, toys covering nearly every surface. The house hummed with noise and overlapping conversations. When Emma opened my gift—a dollhouse I’d spent weeks carefully choosing—the room actually went quiet. Her excitement was genuine and contagious. For a brief moment, I felt proud. Content.
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