The Scar He Couldn’t Love

Brenda looked at me, then at Leo, and laughed awkwardly. "Leo, your mom's home now. I have to go."

Leo plopped down on the floor and burst into tears. "I don't want her! I want Brenda to stay! I want Brenda to be my mom!"

Leo was only four, unaware of the daggers his innocent words plunged into my heart.

Brenda patted my shoulder. "Kids just say things. Don't take it to heart."

Edwin hauled Leo up from the floor. "Say that again," he said coldly, "and you'll spend an hour in time-out."

Edwin's threat worked. Leo didn't dare throw another tantrum.

The living room fell silent, filled only with the sound of his suppressed sobs.

Watching this absurd farce unfold felt like a real-life version of "The Emperor's New Clothes."

If I didn't call it out, we could go on pretending to be a picture-perfect family.

Edwin's career was soaring. I could continue being the idle, wealthy wife of a tech mogul.

Brenda would remain my best friend, the one I shared everything with.

And Leo, despite his brattiness, was still the son I had carried for nine months, the one who'd left a permanent scar on my body.

And yet...

As I watched Edwin push open the door to his study, I heard my own voice, impossibly steady. "Edwin, let's get a divorce."

I returned to my hometown, the small town of Beacon in the Hudson Valley. Eleanor Vance was here. She was my only family, the director of a local youth center.

"Calista." She took my hands, her eyes welling with tears. "What are you going to do now?"

I squeezed her hand back, gazing at the rain-slicked street. "I'll be okay," I said softly.

In truth, I had no idea. In an instant, my husband, my son, and my best friend were all gone. I was adrift again, just like when I was a child.

Eleanor hugged me. "If you're sad, you can always come home."

I nodded. As I was leaving, a commotion broke out by the gate. A little girl had been pushed into a mud puddle by some boys, her white dress stained. Eleanor scolded the boys while I helped the girl up. She was clutching a teddy bear, its face also splattered with mud.

"Is this important to you?" I asked.

She nodded, trying in vain to wipe the mud off.

Eleanor sighed. "That's Sherry. She waits at the gate every day for her family, but no one has ever come."

In her small, lonely frame, I saw a reflection of my own childhood. On impulse, I asked, "Can I become her foster mother?"

That day, there were two figures at the gate. And I had a daughter.

I named her Sherry Miller. At home, I drew Sherry a warm bath, and soon she was scrubbed clean, smelling of soap and fresh towels. With my experience raising Leo, I quickly found that Sherry was practically an angel by comparison.

Leo had been a terror, a picky eater who would only touch organic chicken nuggets and often threw his entire plate on the floor.

Sherry, on the other hand, was quiet. She accepted the quinoa salad I made for her without complaint.

She ate in silence and even offered to do the dishes.

Taking care of Sherry was so much easier than raising Leo had ever been.

But I always sensed an invisible wall between us.

During a routine dental check-up, I found out Sherry had a cavity.

It reminded me of Leo's dental problems. I never let him have sweets. The day Leo said Brenda was making him s'mores, Edwin hadn't reacted at all, clearly unconcerned about his son's teeth.

Sherry noticed I'd drifted off. She tapped my arm, a confused look on her face.

Trying to tease her, I said, "I saw this movie once, Orphan, where the adopted kid turns out to be a grown-up. So I have to check your teeth to see if you're really a kid." For the first time, Sherry gave me a look of pure exasperation.