My name is Simone, and for four years I believed I had built a stable, predictable life.
I married Thomas knowing he had a son from his previous relationship. Jake was only four when we met. He’s eight now—bright, funny, obsessed with dinosaurs and space documentaries. He lives with us full-time. I cook his meals, help with homework, sit through parent-teacher meetings. I care about him… but I have always been careful about one thing: I am not his mother.
A week ago, everything changed.
Jake had been tired for months. Pale. Bruising easily. We thought it was just a virus. Then came the hospital tests. The long silences. The sterile smell of the oncology wing.
The doctor’s words felt like they were underwater: life-threatening illness. Aggressive. Immediate treatment required.
Thomas collapsed into a chair.
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