Whether she tells the world or not, Riley needs to know — I’m not the woman she thinks I am. I’m not Alexa — I’m just in her body!

But before I could even begin to speak up and make another high-pitched squeak, my forkful of syrup-soaked cake misses its target, drenching my cheek in a sticky and humbling reminder that multi-tasking is still out of reach.

As the silverware clatters against the plate, I look up to Riley to apologize, but she’s straining to keep a cheery expression.

“You…umm…must’ve had a long night,” she frets, turning to search for some paper towel before a single sniffle slips out, and then many more. Oh no…