When my sons came home telling me their stepmom wanted them to call her “Mom,” I smiled through the sting. But behind that smile, I was already planning a lesson she wouldn’t forget.
When you divorce someone, you expect some pain. But what you don’t expect is for that pain to crawl back years later and twist the knife through the voices of your children.
Let me tell you what happened.
It was a calm Tuesday night, one of those rare evenings when both my boys had bathed without protest and settled into bed like angels. Eli, my three-year-old, was already half asleep. His curls were plastered to his forehead with drool on his Spider-Man pillow.
Noah, who had just turned five, was still wide awake, blinking up at me while I tucked in his sheets.
He looked thoughtful, his small brows furrowed.
Then he asked, “Mom, am I allowed to have two moms now?”
I froze. My hand stopped midair as I reached for his nightlight.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”
He shrugged, totally innocent. “Daddy’s new wife said we should start calling her ‘Mom.’ She said she’s my real mom too.”
The silence that followed was deafening!
My heart cracked so sharply it felt physical, like a dish being dropped and shattered on the floor. I swallowed hard, forcing a gentle smile to my face as I bent down and kissed his forehead.
“No, baby,” I said softly. “You only have one mom.
Me. Always.”
He nodded like it made sense, then rolled over and pulled his blanket up to his chin.
But I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as those words echoed through my skull like a chant I couldn’t turn off.
“Real mom too.” Over and over again.
My ex-husband, Mark, and I divorced two years ago. We met in college, survived the broke years, moved into a fixer-upper, and built what I thought was a life. But somewhere between the sleep deprivation, diapers, and the bills, we stopped being a team.
The love drained out quietly, like a slow leak we didn’t patch in time.
We tried therapy and date nights, but nothing stuck.
He met Lori six months after we split. I’d like to say I was surprised, but I wasn’t. Lori was exactly Mark’s type.
She had bleached blond hair, skin that always glowed suspiciously orange, and acrylic nails that could double as ice picks.
My ex’s new wife also had a permanently fixed smile that never reached her eyes.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
