I hung up my phone. I stood, smoothed the wrinkles from my tailored skirt, and walked out the door without a backward glance.
Three years later.
The autumn sun draped a golden hue over the courtyard of an elite Manhattan preschool. I stood by the gates, adjusting the strap of my designer tote, when a tiny hurricane with bouncing pigtails came hurtling toward me.
“Mama!” Arya shrieked, launching herself into my arms.
I caught her, inhaling the sweet scent of crayon wax and baby shampoo. “How was art class, my love?”
“Good!” She pulled a crumpled construction paper from her pocket. It was a crude drawing of a large figure and a small figure holding hands beside a bright yellow sun. “It’s you and me, Mama. But… Tommy said everyone has a daddy. Where is mine?”
My step faltered for a fraction of a second. I knelt down on the pavement, looking directly into her pitch-black, shining eyes. “Do you feel like you need one?”
