At the advice of a child psychologist, my boyfriend of six months placed a photo of us in his apartment so his three young children — twin boys nearly six and a daughter barely four — could ask questions about me. I carried an immense desire to solidify this potential family for myself. However, I never considered how to incorporate their mother into my life. “Daddy, who is that? What’s her favorite color? Does she like ice cream? Does she know Mama?” The kids were intrigued and eager to meet me.
When we met at a pumpkin patch on a cool Saturday afternoon, they instantly warmed to me. They fought over the seat next to me on the spinning strawberry carnival ride, and we shared bites of their apple cider doughnuts. A wave of elation washed over me when one of the boys held my hand on the way back to the car. I thought about their mom, Carrie, often that day as strangers assumed I was their mother. Yet, I told myself the ex-wife and the new girlfriend were ill-fated friends by circumstance alone, and I didn’t plan to make an effort with her.
We finally met one Sunday on her driveway. Her beautiful, long, strawberry blond hair caught the evening light, and she greeted our car with a warm smile. She walked straight over to me as if we already knew each other. Her energy was unmistakably positive. I shook her hand and feigned a smile, but I didn’t trust her intentions.
Before we left, her daughter ran straight to me, arms outstretched, for one more hug goodbye. An embrace like that from her was the epitome of what love should feel like, but I cringed. I wanted her dad to scoop her up before she could reach me, or for Carrie to turn away and not see her daughter in another woman’s arms, but I instinctively bent down and enveloped her. Days later, my boyfriend reported comments from his ex-wife. She wasn’t happy about the hug. She didn’t like me. She had a bad feeling. Most of all, she wanted him to move back in with her.
Life became filled with secondhand reports and nasty quips from Carrie. She didn’t think I picked cute outfits for the kids. He told me she said I was very photogenic because I wasn’t that pretty in real life. She called me manipulative, said I was trying to erase her, that all I did was help him be a good-time dad, while she was stuck as a struggling single mom. I then officially shunned the woman who was trying to destroy the love I had with her ex-husband and children.
Knowing that stepmoms rarely fare well in fairy tales, I vowed to be the exception. My entire life revolved around the kids: I bought animal-shaped cookie cutters, matching pajamas, and monogrammed Christmas stockings. I spent time between corporate meetings concocting activities and making booklets for them to read on our first family road trip to northern Minnesota — complete with a map of our journey, a quiz, and the story of Paul Bunyan. Once we married, I felt entitled to overindulge. I didn’t see how over-the-top my behavior was at the time.
While pouring everything into her kids, I gave nothing to Carrie. I didn’t try to really talk to her during pick-ups and drop-offs as we exchanged niceties in our foyers. We quickly fell into a routine of washing the kids’ clothes and handing them back and forth in shopping bags without acknowledgment. I told my husband to stop sharing his location with her. I encouraged him to fight for more custody. We took the kids to a diner where a kind elderly woman walked by and put her hand on my shoulder. She motioned to my stepdaughter, saying, “You know she looks just like you!” I offered a beaming smile as she walked away. I didn’t correct strangers.
And then, the worst possible ending to my fairy tale: My husband and I got divorced. I would have done anything to avoid the sudden and shocking turn of events that disintegrated my marriage of less than two years, but I couldn’t stop it. He was gone, and by default, they were too. I had no legal claim to the kids I had willingly uprooted my life to stepmother. I was alone in an empty house, screaming in silence, dumbfounded by what had happened. I roamed into the boys’ bedroom, crawled to their hamper, wiping my tears with the comforting scent of their dirty T-shirts. I lay in the fetal position on my stepdaughter’s bed, watching the sunlight slowly dim into blackness on the pond outside. The following week, I sat on the floor of the family room staring up at the towering fireplace, wishing the bricks would tumble and bury me in my dream home forever. I didn’t know what to do, what to say to anyone, or any next logical step in my life.
Then my phone rang. It was Carrie. I stared in disbelief. Should I answer? Was she going to yell at me? Did she hate me now for leaving her children? In a soft and gentle, almost hesitant voice, she asked, “Hey ... do you want to take [my daughter] to gymnastics today?” My eyes widened and all I could do was smile as tears dampened the phone against my cheek. “Yes. Thank you,” was all I could muster.
How lucky I was that Carrie knew what I should do next. I took her daughter to gymnastics practice. From that moment on, I answered every FaceTime when the kids called to say goodnight. Carrie invited my parents to the First Communion party she threw for her sons. In her living room, I sat with her mother, an elusive woman I had known as “Nana” for years, who held my hand and told me how much her grandchildren loved me and that everything would be all right. My dad said to me as we left, “Carrie is a really beautiful person — from a close family.” My mom added, “Yes, just like ours.”
Carrie invited me for bike rides, helped her daughter make a Valentine’s Day card for me that said I was her “one choo love,” and hosted me at her kitchen table on multiple occasions, showing concern for how I was doing as I recovered from my divorce from her ex-husband. It didn’t take long to realize everything he said about her was a lie. She had always been this wonderful person — I just didn’t see it. And while he did everything to keep us apart, I should have done better to come together with her for the sake of raising healthy children.
One year later, her daughter wanted her ears pierced. She requested that Carrie and I each hold one of her hands during the process. That same night, I met Carrie’s fiancé. He made the kids move seats at the restaurant so he could sit across from me and get to know me. He asked me thoughtful questions, reiterated the love his soon-to-be stepkids have for me, and picked up the tab before I could offer to pay. I got in my car that night and smiled to myself. I was thrilled Carrie found someone who deserved her.
Today, Carrie’s kids are 15 and 13, and it’s been seven years since their dad and I divorced, and just as long since I’ve seen him. I’ve never asked him whether it bothers him that I still see his kids. Every invitation comes through her. She was the woman I hated most yet needed in my life more than anyone. She’s the woman who made me a mom when I married her ex and after I divorced him. Maybe I should really thank my ex. He knows how to pick a good woman.
