When my new stepmother told me to start calling her “Mom,” I didn’t argue. I just watched. Quietly. Waiting.
She thought she could take my mother’s place just like that, as if a name could do it. But I had a plan. And on her birthday, I gave her exactly what she asked for.
That morning was silent. Almost too silent.
Dad sat at the table, flipping through the newspaper like he did every Saturday. He didn’t say a word. Not even when he turned a page — just a soft shhhk sound of paper and the ticking of the old kitchen clock.
I sat on the couch. Barely moved. Dad didn’t like noise in the mornings. He said mornings were for thinking, not talking.
He finally spoke, voice flat:
“You got homework?”
Still staring at the paper.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ll do it later.”
“Don’t wait till the last minute.”
“I won’t.”
That was it. No asking what subject. No offering to help. That wasn’t his style. He always said, “If you can’t figure it out, you didn’t listen in class.”
I glanced at my hand. There was a scar on my knuckle. Faint, but still there. I got it when I fell off my bike. I was probably five or six.
I remembered how I cried, sitting on the ground, thinking my hand was broken. But Dad just stood over me and said:
“You’re not dying. Boys get hurt. Stand up.”
So I did.
When I had nightmares, I’d go to his bedroom door. I never saw him get out of bed. He’d just call out from the other side:
“Go back to sleep, Jason. You’re fine.”
So I stopped knocking.
I never asked for toys or new shirts unless mine were torn or stained. I knew better.
Still, I respected him. He worked hard. Always brought food home. Never missed a school event. He just didn’t say much. Didn’t smile much either.
I got up and wandered to the bookshelf. We didn’t keep many photos, but there was a little one tucked behind some old books. A picture of me sitting on his shoulders. I must’ve been four. We both wore these half-smiles — like we weren’t used to it. It looked… rare. Like we borrowed it from someone else.
I smiled a little. Then I heard footsteps behind me.
That was the day she came back.
I was seven the first time I saw her.
Dad opened the front door, and I peeked around his side. A woman stood there, holding a bright blue gift bag. Her eyes were big and watery, like she was trying not to cry. Her smile was wide — too wide.
“Hi, Jason,” she said. Her voice was soft and shaky.
“Who’s that?” I asked Dad quietly.
She crouched down to my level, still holding the bag.
“It’s me, sweetie. I’m Jessica. Your mom.”
I looked up at Dad, confused.
He crossed his arms and said,
“She wanted to see you.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t know what to say. I’d heard her name before, seen some pictures. I knew she wasn’t ready to be a mom when I was born. She was like a ghost to me.
“I brought you something,” she said, holding out the bag. “It’s not much. I just… thought you might like it.”
Inside was a stuffed turtle. Green. Soft. With this sleepy little smile. I still have it.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
Dad cleared his throat.
“You can stay for lunch.”
Jessica’s eyes lit up.
“Really? That’s okay?”
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked toward the kitchen.
That was the beginning.
She started visiting more after that. Sometimes she’d take me out. Once to the zoo — we saw a baby elephant. Another time to the aquarium. I remember standing in front of the jellyfish tank, watching them glow like floating lanterns.
“Do you like drawing?” she asked once.
No one ever asked me that before. I didn’t know what to say. But… yeah. I liked it.
We painted together once. My lines were messy, and I knocked over the water cup.
I looked down in panic, but she just smiled.
“You’re allowed to make mistakes,” she said.
“Dad doesn’t like messes,” I said quietly.
She laughed. Not at me — just kindly.
“Well, I’m not your dad.”
She asked about my favorite color. What books I liked. We even started texting.
Me: Got an A in spelling.
Her: That’s amazing! So proud of you!
Me: I miss the turtles.
Her: Let’s go see them this weekend.
Dad didn’t say much about her. But he never stopped her either. One day, I saw them talking on the porch. He wasn’t yelling. She was smiling. He even nodded at something she said.
That felt like a win.
Things were… okay. For a while.
Then she arrived.
Kate.
My father’s new wife.
I came home from school one day and found her in the kitchen, lining up plates like she was on a cooking show. She wore a cherry-red lipstick that didn’t belong near soup.
“There you are!” she chirped. “Just in time. Help me set the table, sweetie?”
I dropped my backpack by the door.
“Sure.”
She clapped. “Make sure you save a seat for Mom,” she said, pointing at herself with both thumbs and a grin.
I froze. My hand was halfway to the plates. Then I blinked and smiled politely.
“Sure. I’ll set a spot for Kate.”
Her smile twitched. Just a little. Then she rubbed her temples like she had a headache.
Dinner that night? Mostly her voice. She talked about throw pillows. Cake. And how her birthday was coming soon.
“Can’t believe it’s just around the corner,” she said with a sparkle in her eye. “I wonder what everyone’s planning for me.”
She looked straight at me when she said it.
I didn’t answer. Dad chewed his food slowly, like it was too heavy.
Then came the moment she really leaned in.
“You know,” she said, “I’ve never heard someone call me ‘Mom’ before. I bet it would sound really nice coming from you. I am your full-time mom now, you know.”
I stabbed at my broccoli and kept chewing. My eyes burned, but I didn’t let the tears fall. Dad gave me that look. The one that said, “No crying.”
Later that night, I picked up my phone.
Me: She wants me to call her “Mom.” She doesn’t even know what cereal I like.
Jessica: She hasn’t earned it. But you’ll handle it.
And I would.
Her birthday came the next week.
Early that morning, I knocked on her bedroom door.
She opened it, still wearing her fuzzy robe. Her hair was wild.
“Jason? Everything okay?”
I grinned wide.
“Happy birthday, Mom!”
Her eyes blinked fast. Then she smiled like I’d handed her gold.
“Oh, thank you, sweetie! That means the world to me.”
I nodded. “I was hoping you could make my favorite birthday breakfast.”
She tilted her head. “Your what?”
“You know. The one we always had. Since I was little.”
She rubbed her temples.
“Uh… right. That one. What was in it again?”
I tilted my head.
“Come on. You’re my full-time mom. Don’t you already know?”
She gave a nervous chuckle.
“Well… let me surprise you!”
Ten minutes later, I had… scrambled pancakes. I ate every bite without saying a word. Then I took a picture and sent it to Jessica.
Me: Breakfast chaos. She made scrambled pancakes.
At school, I launched phase two.
Me (to Kate): Got an A on my essay, Mom!
No reply.
Me: Feeling sleepy after gym. Should I get the burrito or sandwich?
Still nothing.
Me: *French quiz went okay. We’re watching a movie now 🙂 *
Finally, she responded:
“Good job.”
By lunch, I sent more.
Me: Hey Mom, just tied my shoes in 2 seconds flat! Record?
No answer.
By last period:
Kate: Jason, stop. I’m not your babysitter!
I grinned.
That afternoon, I faked a stomachache. The nurse called Kate.
When I got home, she was on a laptop, typing fast.
“Back already?” she asked, distracted.
“I don’t feel good.”
“Oh. Well… lie down, okay? I’ve got a Zoom call in five.”
I groaned dramatically onto the couch.
“Could you make me some ginger tea? Jessica always does when I’m sick.”
She turned in her chair.
“Jason, I really don’t have time. I’ve got slides to review. Maybe later.”
I nodded slowly.
“Full-time moms don’t clock out.”
She stared at me, speechless. Then turned back to her screen.
That night, Dad told us we were having a “family meeting” after dinner. My stomach sank.
Dinner was silent. Forks scraped plates. Water glasses clinked. Then Dad cleared his throat and set his napkin down.
“Let’s settle this,” he said. “Jason, it’s time you called Kate what she is.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Kate raised a hand.
“Wait,” she said. Her voice was soft. Real.
“I pushed too hard.”
She looked at me, then at the table.
“I wanted that word — ‘Mom’ — because I thought it would make me feel like I belonged. But I skipped the part where I earned it. Jessica’s a great mother. I’m not trying to replace her.”
She looked right at me.
“You don’t have to call me anything you’re not ready for.”
For the first time, she wasn’t acting. She wasn’t performing. She was just… honest.
Dad didn’t say anything. But something changed in his face. Like… respect.
I nodded slowly.
“Thank you. I don’t know what to call you yet. But I appreciate that.”
Later that night, I texted Jessica.
Me: It’s over. She apologized. Didn’t expect that.
Jessica: You handled it with heart. I’m proud of you.
I smiled. Then changed Kate’s contact in my phone.
Kate (Stepmom)
Because some words aren’t meant to be forced.
You say them when they’re true.
