The next morning, I made pancakes. The first one burned, the second one tore, but by the third, Tara walked into the kitchen wearing my old sweater.
“I’m not ready to call you Mom,” she said quietly.
The words hurt, but they were honest.
“Then call me Cassidy,” I said. “That’s enough for me.”
For twenty years, I believed Egypt had taken my daughter. But it was a