I never planned on becoming a stepmom. But when I married Daniel, his seven-year-old daughter Lily came with him. Her mother had vanished years earlier, and I never tried to replace her. I just showed up.
I packed lunches, learned how to braid her hair, worked overtime for braces and tutoring, sat through every school concert and soccer game. When Daniel died suddenly of a heart attack, Lily was sixteen—and overnight, I became her only parent, though never legally.
I stayed. I always stayed.
Two years later, on Lily’s 18th birthday, I hugged her before work and promised we’d celebrate that weekend. She smiled nervously and said, “See you later.”
When I came home, my suitcase was on the porch.
Taped to it was a note in her handwriting:
“I packed your things. You’re not allowed in the house anymore.”
My heart shattered.
She sent me an address and told me to come immediately.
I arrived expecting the worst.
Instead, I found her waiting outside a small salon. She hugged me like she used to when she was little and scared.
Then she handed me an envelope. Inside were two plane tickets and a note:
“For 11 years, you put me first. You gave up everything for me. Now it’s your turn to be taken care of.”
She’d planned a trip for us. Paid for it with her savings and her father’s inheritance.
“You’re my mom,” she said. “Not by law. By choice.”
I cried harder than I had in years.
For the first time in over a decade, I finally let myself leave for me.
