"Momma, come give me a hug," my four-year-old son, Harry, chided, pulling me close for an embrace.
My face lit up with a smile as I stared at the mini version of my rivalry; he had every feature of him—his eyes, his hair color. Mine was red, which I'd dyed black now. And his was jet black, just like his father. Nature really cheated me. I was the one who had all the fuss in carrying him, and yet he didn’t get to have any of my features. That’s cool, isn’t it?
“You’re such a big baby,” I cooed, pulling his soft little body into mine. He was my home, my solace. And a reminder of the position I once held.
I ruffled his hair. “Harry, Momma has to get to work, okay? Nana will drop you at school,” I smiled at him, referring to my grandmother, who always liked accompanying him to school even t
