When my new stepmother told me to start calling her “Mom,” I didn’t fight. I didn’t roll my eyes or argue. I just watched. I waited.
She thought she could step into my real mom’s shoes like it was no big deal. Like the word Mom was just a name anyone could take.
But I had a plan. And on her birthday, I gave her exactly what she wanted.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through his usual Saturday newspaper. He didn’t say a word. Not even when he turned the page. Just the soft rustling of paper and the tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall.
I sat on the couch, barely moving. I knew better than to make noise in the morning. Dad hated noise before his coffee.
“You got homework?” he asked suddenly, eyes still on the paper.
“Yeah,” I answered. “I’ll do it later.”
“Don’t wait till the last minute.”
“I won’t.”
That was it. He didn’t ask what subject it was or if I needed help. He never did.
He always said, “If you can’t figure it out, you weren’t paying attention in class.”
I looked down at my hand. There was a small scar on my knuckle. Still there after all these years. I got it when I fell off my bike. I must’ve been five or six.
Back then, I cried hard. My knee was scraped, blood dripping down my leg. I remember looking up at him with tears in my eyes.
He just looked down and said, “You’re not dying. Boys get hurt. Stand up.”
So I did.
When I had nightmares and knocked on his door, he didn’t even get out of bed. He just said, “Go back to sleep, Jason. You’re fine.”
Eventually, I stopped knocking.
I never asked for toys or snacks or new clothes unless I really needed them. I knew better.
Still, I respected him. He worked hard. He paid the bills. He showed up to every school play or soccer game. But he never said much.
I wandered over to the bookshelf and started looking through the old photos. There weren’t many. Dad didn’t like clutter.
But behind some old books, I found a small photo of me on his shoulders when I was maybe four years old. We both had awkward little half-smiles. Like we didn’t know what to do with our faces.
I stared at it and smiled just a little.
That was when I heard footsteps behind me.
That day changed everything.
I was seven the first time I saw her.
Dad opened the front door, and I peeked around him to see who it was.
There she stood. Holding a bright blue gift bag. Her eyes looked watery, and her smile stretched a little too wide.
“Hi, Jason,” she said gently. Her voice trembled.
I blinked. “Who’s that?” I whispered.
She crouched down so we were eye level. Still holding the gift bag.
“It’s me, sweetie. I’m Jessica. Your mom.”
I looked up at Dad, unsure.
He crossed his arms. “She wanted to see you.”
I didn’t move. I’d seen a few pictures of her. Heard her name in stories, here and there. I knew she hadn’t been ready to be a mom when I was born.
To me, she was like a ghost. Someone I’d never touched.
“I got you something,” she said. “It’s not much… just something I thought you might like.”
She held the bag out. I took it carefully.
Inside was a small green stuffed turtle. Soft shell. Round eyes. It looked like it was smiling.
I still have it.
“Thanks,” I said, holding it close.
Dad cleared his throat. “You can stay for lunch.”
Jessica’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s okay?”
He didn’t answer. Just walked toward the kitchen.
That was the beginning.
After that, Jessica started coming around more. Sometimes she picked me up and took me out—once to the zoo, once to the aquarium.
I remember the jellyfish. They glowed under the lights like floating balloons, slow and magical.
“Do you like drawing?” she asked as we watched them.
No one had ever asked me that before.
“I think so,” I said.
We painted together once. I accidentally dragged a blue streak across the paper. I looked up, worried.
Jessica just smiled. “It’s okay, baby. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”
I blinked. “Dad doesn’t like messes.”
She smiled again. “Well, I’m not your dad.”
She laughed a lot. Asked me silly questions like, “What’s your favorite color?” and “What kind of books do you like?”
We even started texting.
Me: Got an A in spelling.
Jessica: That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Me: I miss the turtles.
Jessica: Let’s go see them this weekend.
Dad never said much about her visits. But he didn’t stop them either. Once, I saw them standing on the porch talking. She was smiling. He nodded at something she said.
It felt like a small win.
Then everything changed again.
Kate arrived. My dad’s new wife.
I came home from school one day and walked into the kitchen. Kate was lining up plates like she was hosting a cooking show. Big smile. Bright red lipstick that looked weird in our plain kitchen.
“There you are!” she said. “Just in time. Can you help me set the table, sweetie?”
I dropped my bag. “Sure.”
“Make sure you save a seat for Mom,” she added, pointing to herself with both hands like she was on stage.
My hands froze mid-reach for the plates.
“Sure,” I said flatly. “I’ll set a spot for Kate.”
Her smile twitched just a little. Then she started rubbing her temples.
Dinner was quiet except for Kate talking non-stop.
She talked about throw pillows. About a new cake recipe. About how her birthday was coming up soon.
“I can’t believe it’s just around the corner,” she said, sipping water. “I wonder what everyone’s planning for me.” She stared straight at me when she said it.
I stayed silent. Dad chewed his food slowly, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
“Oh, and you know,” she added with a fake laugh, “I’ve never heard someone call me ‘Mom’ before. Bet it would sound really nice coming from you. I am your full-time mom now.”
I stabbed at my broccoli harder than necessary. My eyes burned, but I didn’t cry.
Dad gave me that look—the one that meant, Don’t even think about it.
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.
She was right.
Kate’s birthday came fast. That morning, I knocked on her bedroom door early.
She opened it in her robe, her hair messy from sleep.
“Jason? Everything okay?” she asked, confused.
I smiled big. Fake big. “Happy birthday, Mom!”
She blinked. Then smiled, her face lighting up. “Oh! Thank you, sweetie! That means the world to me.”
“I was hoping you could make my favorite birthday breakfast,” I said sweetly.
Her smile faded a little. “Your what?”
“You know… the one we’ve had every year since I was little.”
She rubbed her temple. “Right… that one. Um… what was in it again?”
I tilted my head. “Come on. You’re my full-time mom. You should know.”
She laughed nervously. “Well, let me just surprise you!”
Ten minutes later, I had scrambled pancakes on my plate. Burnt on one side. Mushy on the other.
I didn’t complain. I took a picture and sent it to Jessica.
Me: Breakfast chaos. She made scrambled pancakes.
At school, I started my next move.
Me (to Kate): Got an A on my essay, Mom!
No reply.
Me: Feeling sleepy after gym. Burrito or sandwich?
Still nothing.
Me: French quiz went okay. Watching a movie now. 🙂
Ten minutes later: Kate: “Good job.”
I kept going. Every class. Every break.
Me: We’re learning about volcanoes. They’re cool.
Kate: “Busy right now.”
Me: Forgot my pencil. Borrowed one. 🙂
Kate: “Jason. I’m in a meeting.”
By the end of the day, I got: “Jason, stop. I’m not your babysitter!”
I smiled.
That afternoon, I faked a stomachache. The nurse sent me home early.
Kate was at her laptop when I walked in.
“Back already?” she asked.
“I don’t feel good.”
“Oh. Well… go lie down, okay? I’ve got a Zoom call in five.”
I flopped onto the couch and groaned. “Can you make me ginger tea? Jessica always does when I’m sick.”
She turned toward me, annoyed. “Jason, I really don’t have time. I’ve got slides to review.”
I nodded. “Full-time moms don’t clock out.”
She stared at me. Didn’t say a word. Just turned back to her screen.
That night, Dad made an announcement: “Family meeting. After dinner.”
The way he said it made my stomach turn.
Dinner was quiet. Just the sound of forks.
Afterward, Dad set his napkin down.
“Let’s settle this,” he said. “Jason, it’s time you called Kate what she is.”
I opened my mouth, but Kate held up her hand.
“Wait. I need to say something first.”
Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard it.
“I pushed too hard,” she said. “I wanted you to call me ‘Mom’ because… I thought it would make me feel like I belonged. Like I mattered here.”
She looked down, then back up at me.
“But I didn’t earn it. And I’m not trying to replace Jessica. She’s a great mom. I just… wanted to be part of this family.”
For once, she wasn’t acting. She was just being real.
I looked at her, then slowly nodded. “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)
Some words… you don’t say just because someone tells you to.
You say them when they’re true.