Step-love

[This one's just from me (Esther), and without our usual hijinks. But don't worry, we won't make a habit of such serious posts!]


Esther:

When I was dating I was nervous about the possibility of being someone’s stepmom. What if the kid didn’t like me? What if I didn’t like them?

I steeled myself against several scenarios, never imagining that when I did meet my stepdaughter I would meet a daughter I was always meant to have. A personality growing before me that my own complemented startlingly well. Someone I would proudly be best friends with if we met when she was an adult.

It’s a sensitive thing, being a stepmother when the mother has died. On the one hand you don’t have to share your stepchild with her “real” mom. On the other hand you do, all the time, forever. And I’m learning that’s okay.

She never calls me “Mom” and I understand and respect that, even though my heart sings “daughter” every time we’re together. I wear my name when I’m with her and smile when outsiders say her mother would be proud of her. Because, even though I didn’t meet her mother, I think they must be right because of how proud of her I am. As proud of her as I am of the children I birthed. Love doesn’t know the difference between them.

It’s a pang, having no memories of her birth and only a handful of years to make memories with her as pseudo-mother before she’s grown and gone. I try to cram years of advice and motherly tips into our drives around town, try to tell her I love her and love her and love her to make up for all the years I hadn’t loved her yet.

And it’s okay, sharing her love with her first mother, because she has enough love for us both. The other night I handed her something and she said, “Gracias, mi madre.” My heart clenched. Even if in English I am always Esther to her, that one time she called me Mom in Spanish ...

... will fill my tank for the rest of our relationship.