I have always believed that motherhood is, at its core, an advanced form of espionage.
Anyone who tells you otherwise has either never raised a child or raised the kind of child who willingly volunteers information, which sounds lovely in theory and deeply suspicious in practice.
My daughter, for example, has never volunteered anything in her life unless it came wrapped in sarcasm and a mild threat.
Which is why, when I stepped into Amara's room the previous night and found her standing there at one in the morning wearing Elara's hoodie, looking guilty enough to be arrested on sight, I knew immediately that something monumental was happening.
I did not know what exactly.
But I knew.
A mother knows these things.
It is a sacred gift. Like intuition, but sharper. Better dressed, too.
