“They’re both my real sons”

 Iwas attending a kindergarten play when a woman approached me. “Becca, is it really you?” she asked.

Immediately, I recognized that New England accent. It was my college roommate, Chaya, whom I hadn’t seen in years. We couldn’t get over our good fortune, this chance to reconnect.

“What are you doing here?” she asked me.

“That’s my grandson,” I told her proudly, indicating a little redheaded boy standing on the stage.

“That’s mine,” she said, pointing to another sweet boy.

Later, as I recounted the episode, it occurred to me that I’d crossed an invisible threshold without noticing — I’d referred to my step-grandson as my grandson.

It reminded me of a true story I heard many years ago, about a couple who were told by their doctors that they wouldn’t be able to have children, so they adopted a little boy. But, as we all know, Hashem is the Rofeh Ha’olam. The following year, they were blessed with a natural-born child.

When the boys were around five and six, someone asked the mother which one was her “real” son.

This wonderful mother replied, “They’re both my real sons. Honestly, I’ve forgotten which one I adopted.”