When you married my dad, you weren’t just agreeing to a life together. You were agreeing to have a six-year-old child whom you had never changed a diaper for, never watched them take their first steps nor helped them learn to hold a spoon. You had to learn to love me just as you learned to love my dad- not so routine when it comes to dating.
Stepparents are crazy. It’s one thing to watch your own child grow up and pass through the terrible two’s, trying threes and ferocious fours, but to jump right in at sassy six, that takes guts. Not only were you adjusting to life with a husband, but with a daughter as well. There was no “easing into it” and “taking it slow”. You jumped right onto a moving train that wasn’t slowing down. And for the record, you did great.
I was raised by a stepparent and I am better for it. I knew loss at a young age which taught me to appreciate each and every person in my life while they were in it. I learned that family doesn’t have to mean blood. Though my birth certificate doesn’t have your name on, it might as well with how much you’ve embraced the role of motherhood in my life. Every daughter needs her mother and I was lucky enough to have you.
You had a choice when you met my dad. A choice to leave and find someone that didn’t have a six-year-old daughter in tow. A choice to walk away and leave the commitment for someone else. But instead, you chose to stay. Despite the unknown that lay ahead, you chose to take on the challenge, to fill the roll and cover the gap. You chose him and you chose me.
And that makes you my mother. Â