Denise’s heels clicked down the stoop. She was a litigation attorney from Crown Heights—sharp, loud, and terrified of vulnerability. “You ran out on dinner. Again.”
He took his hands out of his pockets.
“Ezekiel Chase, you stop right there.” momswap brooklyn chase
Denise smiled—small, honest, nothing like a lawyer. Denise’s heels clicked down the stoop
“Fine.” She folded the flyer. “Then we walk. You tell me one thing about your real mom. I tell you one thing about my real kid. And when this mess ends, we both know how to miss someone better.” “Then we walk
Chase looked past her, down Vanderbilt Avenue, where the B65 bus was coughing toward Atlantic. He could make it. He could find his real mom’s brownstone, camp out on the steps, and wait for the swap to reverse.
He flinched. Ezekiel. She only used that when she meant business. Except… she wasn’t his mother. Not really. Three weeks ago, some cosmic hiccup swapped every mom in Brooklyn. Chase had come home to find a woman named Denise in his kitchen, stirring gumbo, wearing his real mom’s apron. And his real mom? Last he heard, she was on Staten Island, teaching some kid named Marcus how to fold fitted sheets.