“I’m not your son,” Chase said, not turning around.
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. momswap brooklyn chase
He took his hands out of his pockets.
“I’m not going to a support group,” he said. “I’m not your son,” Chase said, not turning around