Chapter 1

My husband, Damian Dunn, scowled. "Why'd you bring so much again? We're not running a warehouse."

"Relax," Caleb, his younger brother, said "This pork's primo stuff. Hugo's at the perfect age to bulk up."

Damian shot back. "Have you seen how fat he's gotten?"

"Please, boys are supposed to be chunky. Sturdy kids don't get sick."

I stood there, watching this exchange.

Damian could whine all he wanted, but we all knew Hugo was his little prince. The kid sneezed, and Damian would probably commission a statue in his honor.

"Hey, Damian," I cut in. "Why don't you whip up some baked pork belly for Hugo while it's fresh?"

Damian side-eyed Hugo—who was already a step away from rolling instead of walking—and sighed. He looked like he was about to argue, but before he could, I gave Hugo the look.

Cue the drama.

Hugo flung himself onto the floor, pulling out every toy he owned. "I WANT PORK BELLY! I WANT IT NOW!" he shrieked, totally Oscar-worthy.

And just like that, Damian's willpower was gone in 0.2 seconds. "Okay, okay, my sweet boy! Daddy will make it!" He practically ran to the kitchen.

Every time Hugo threw one of his little tantrums, Damian folded like a lawn chair.

Before disappearing into the kitchen, Damian glanced at Caleb. "I'll make extra. Take some home for your wife and kid."

Caleb just laughed it off. "Nah, they're country folk. Fancy food will make them soft. Can't have that." He plopped onto the floor next to Hugo, clearly trying to bond.

Big mistake.

Hugo's face twisted in disgust like Caleb had just crawled out of a trash can. The sweat, the clothes, the smell—it was all too much for His Royal Highness.

Caleb tried to play it cool, but Hugo wasn't interested in heartfelt moments.

Instead? He pelted Caleb with toys.

Then he leveled up.

A Rubik's Cube flew across the room and nailed Caleb right in the eye. Caleb yelped, clutching his face as tears streamed down.

I put on my best concerned face and said, "Are you okay? Hugo, say sorry to Uncle Caleb. Now."

Caleb brushed it off, forcing a smile. "No, no, it's fine! Boys should be a little rough—it shows they're smart. Hugo, no need to apologize. If you like throwing things, aim for me! I love playing with you."

Ugh. I let out a scoff and headed to the kitchen.

Hugo already had two dads tripping over themselves to spoil him. No way was I losing that competition.

Raising kids isn't my thing, but spoiling them into oblivion? Oh, I've got that down. Just ask Damian. Look how well that turned out.

Now Hugo was ten, shaped like a beach ball, and still couldn't take care of himself. Sometimes—brace yourself—he wet his pants.

Once, Damian actually had the nerve to ask, "Do you think Hugo's too fat? Maybe we should cut back on his snacks?"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, sure. Let's starve him like Rick. Would that make you feel better?"

Rick. My actual son. Except they nicknamed him "Hick" like he was some backwoods nobody. Real classy.

Whenever I brought him up, Damian clammed up. I guess the thought of Hugo facing even a fraction of what Rick went through made his guilt meter spike.

So, yeah, I kept spoiling Hugo. Turning him into this little wrecking ball of entitlement? It was my not-so-subtle revenge. Watching him throw fits and make Damian's life a living nightmare? Chef's kiss.

Speaking of cooking, the pork belly was done. I started packing some up, and of course, Damian had to poke his nose in.

"What are you doing?"

"I've got work at the office, so I'll just take this with me," I said, already grabbing the container and heading for the door. No need to wait for Damian's opinion.

Spoiler alert: I didn't go to the office.

Instead, I ended up at this sketchy apartment building.

I slipped a handful of candy to some kid loitering around. Five seconds later, he came back with Rick.

Rick ran toward me, this tiny, bony kid who looked even more out of place against the grimy backdrop. Behind him, Betty's screeching voice ripped through the air.

"You brat! Always running off! You don't lift a finger around here! Just wait till you're back—I'll beat you to death!"

I pulled Rick into a quiet corner and handed him the baked pork belly. His huge, tear-filled eyes practically broke me.

"Why are you even skinnier than before?" I asked, trying not to lose it.

"Mom says I have to collect bottles to sell for money. If I don't, she won't let me come home. And if I can't go home, I don't get to eat."

Then I noticed a bruise on his face. My stomach twisted. "What happened here?"

"Dad got drunk," he muttered. "He threw a bottle at me."

I felt tears streaking down my face, but I held it together for him. Barely.

"You have to stay strong, Rick. If they ever hurt you again, come straight to my house. Promise me."

To my surprise, he shook his head.

"Aunt Amelia, I know you're good to me. But I don't want to trouble you."

That's my son—my real son. Thoughtful, polite, and tough as nails, no matter what life throws at him.

I'd lost count of how many times I'd wanted to switch the boys back over the years.

But I couldn't let myself cave. For Rick's future, I had to stay cold.