Rain blurred my view of the house—the same house where I once tucked Hazel into bed, where she ran into my arms. But now, I was just a visitor.

Three years ago, cancer stole my strength, my hair, my ability to care for her. Nathan promised it was temporary—Hazel would stay with him until I recovered. But as treatments dragged on, visits became rare.

At first, Hazel sent me letters, crayon scribbles filled with love. “I love you, Mommy.” Then, the calls stopped. The letters stopped. And one day, I received an envelope—custody papers. Nathan had convinced the court it was best for her. I was too weak to fight.

Now, I was finally strong enough to be back. But when I knocked, Sara—Nathan’s new wife—answered with a pitying smile.

“Nathan took Hazel to the fair,” she said.

“But today is my day.”

Sara hesitated. “She doesn’t ask about you anymore. She calls me ‘Mom’ now.”

The words hit like a punch, but I refused to believe them. I turned and drove straight to the fair.

The fair buzzed with life—music, laughter, flashing lights—but I only had one focus.

Then, I saw her. Hazel. Holding Nathan’s hand.

“Hazel!”

She turned, eyes wide.

“Baby, it’s me!” I stepped forward, arms open. But she didn’t run to me.

People were staring. A gust of wind brushed my scalp. My wig was gone.

Hazel clutched Nathan’s sleeve, shrinking away. “You’re not my mom,” she whispered. “You’re just a bald lady.”

The words shattered me.

That night, I sat alone, clutching Hazel’s old teddy bear. When had she stopped loving me?

Desperate, I scrolled online until I found it—her school’s art contest. I clicked.

There it was. Her painting: a sky full of stars.