I’ve raised my stepson, Oscar, since he was five. After his mom passed, I never tried to replace her. I kept her photos in his room, cooked her favorite meals on her birthday, and made sure he knew it was okay to miss her. I just wanted to be steady — someone he could rely on.
I helped with homework, heartbreaks, college applications. I sat through fevers and cheered at every milestone. I believed love like that mattered.
Then I found out he was getting married. I hugged him, told him how proud I was. Later, I checked the wedding website.
My name wasn’t there. No seat. No invitation.
When I asked gently, he said, “I invited Mom’s relatives. I didn’t want to mix things.”
Mix things. As if I didn’t belong.
On the wedding day, I stayed home. But then the door opened. My husband and our other stepkids walked in with flowers and my favorite pastries.
“If he excluded you,” my husband said softly, “then we’re excluded too. We’re a family.”
I broke down in his arms.
Being a stepparent means loving without guarantees. Sometimes it hurts. But sometimes, the love you give finds its way back — from the people who choose you.
