When my new stepmom told me to call her “Mom,” I didn’t argue. I didn’t roll my eyes. I didn’t fight back. I just waited. Quietly. Watching.
She thought she could replace my real mom just like that. Like it was easy. Like all it took was a smile, a fancy dinner, and a few chores around the house.
But I had a plan. And on her birthday, I gave her exactly what she wanted.
That Saturday morning was way too quiet.
Dad sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the newspaper like always. He didn’t even make a sound. Just the soft rustling of pages. The old clock ticked on the wall. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I was on the couch, staying still. I knew better than to make noise in the morning.
Dad finally spoke without looking up.
“You got homework?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll do it later.”
“Don’t wait till the last minute.”
“I won’t.”
That was it. No “what kind of homework?” or “do you need help?” Nope. That wasn’t Dad. He always said, “If you can’t figure it out, you weren’t listening in class.”
I glanced down at the scar on my knuckle. Still there. I got it when I fell off my bike as a little kid—maybe five or six.
Back then, I cried hard. Blood running down my hand. But Dad just stood over me.
“You’re not dying,” he said. “Boys get hurt. Stand up.”
So I did.
Same with nightmares. I’d go to his door, whisper his name, hoping he’d come out and hug me. But he never moved.
“Go back to sleep, Jason. You’re fine,” he’d say from his bed.
Eventually, I stopped knocking.
I never asked for new clothes unless mine had holes. Never begged for toys or cool shoes. I already knew the answer.
Still, I respected him. He worked hard. Paid the bills. Showed up to school plays and soccer games. But he never said much. Never really smiled.
I walked over to the bookshelf. We didn’t keep many photos. But there was this tiny one shoved in the back.
Me—maybe four years old—sitting on Dad’s shoulders. We had the same half-smile, like we weren’t sure how to do it right.
I smiled a little at that picture. 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 from behind his leg.
There she stood, holding a shiny blue gift bag. Her eyes were big and watery, and her smile was stretched too wide. Like she was trying too hard.
“Hi, Jason,” she said, her voice shaking.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
She crouched down slowly, still holding the bag.
“It’s me, sweetie. I’m Jessica—your mom.”
I looked up at Dad.
“She wanted to see you,” he said, crossing his arms.
I didn’t move. I didn’t know what to feel. I’d heard about her. Seen old photos. She hadn’t been around when I was born. Too young. Too unsure. To me, she was a ghost.
“I brought you something,” she said, still smiling. “It’s not much. But… I thought you might like it.”
She handed me the bag. I took it. Inside was a green stuffed turtle with a soft shell. I still have it, even now.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
Dad cleared his throat. “You can stay for lunch.”
Jessica looked shocked. “Really? That’s okay?”
He didn’t answer. Just walked off to the kitchen.
And that’s how it started.
She came by more often after that. Took me to the zoo once. Then to the aquarium. I still remember those glowing jellyfish—floating like glowing balloons in water.
“Do you like drawing?” she asked me once.
No one had ever asked me that before.
“I guess,” I mumbled.
One day, we painted together. I made a blue streak across the paper by accident and froze.
“Oops,” I said. “Dad doesn’t like messes.”
Jessica just smiled. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”
We started texting. Even when she wasn’t around.
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 talk about her. But he didn’t stop her from visiting either. One time I saw them talking on the porch. He wasn’t yelling. She was smiling. He even nodded.
That felt big. Like a win.
Things were okay. For a while.
Then she showed up.
Kate.
I got home from school and walked into the kitchen. Kate was lining up dinner plates like she was hosting a cooking show. Her lipstick was bright red—like too red—and she had this huge grin.
“There you are!” she said, way too cheerful. “Just in time. Can you help me set the table, sweetie?”
I dropped my backpack. “Sure.”
Then she said it.
“Make sure you save a seat for Mom.”
She pointed at herself with both hands, like I might forget who she meant.
I froze, plates in hand.
“Sure,” I said calmly. “I’ll set a spot for Kate.”
Her smile twitched just a little. Then she started rubbing her temples.
Dinner that night? Super awkward. She talked the whole time—about pillows, birthday cake, and how her birthday was so close.
“I wonder what everyone’s planning for me,” she said, looking straight at me.
I didn’t say a word.
Dad just chewed his food slowly, not looking at either of us.
Then she dropped the bomb.
“Oh, and you know,” she said, “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, after all.”
I stabbed my broccoli with my fork. My eyes stung, but I kept it together.
Dad shot me a warning look. No tears.
That night, I messaged Jessica.
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. I got up early and knocked on her bedroom door.
She opened it, wearing a fluffy pink robe. Her hair was messy.
“Jason? Everything okay?”
I gave her the biggest smile I could. “Happy birthday, Mom!”
She blinked in surprise. Then her smile exploded. “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 wavered. “Your what?”
“You know. The one we’ve had every year since I was little.”
She laughed nervously. “Right, of course… Um, what was in it again?”
I tilted my head. “Come on. You’re my full-time mom. Aren’t you supposed to know?”
She fumbled. “Well, let me just surprise you!”
Ten minutes later, I had a plate of scrambled pancakes. Literally just pancake batter cooked like scrambled eggs.
I smiled and ate them. Took a photo. Sent it to Jessica.
Me: Breakfast chaos. She made scrambled pancakes.
Then I moved to phase two: Operation “Mom Bombardment.”
Me (to Kate): Got an A on my essay, Mom!
No reply.
Me: Feeling sleepy after gym. Should I get the burrito or the sandwich?
Still nothing.
Me: French quiz went okay. Watching a movie in class 🙂
Finally, ten minutes later:
Kate: Good job.
I kept going. Text after text. Every class. Every hour. Every update.
By fourth period:
Kate: Busy right now.
By sixth:
Kate: Jason. I’m in a meeting.
By the end of the day:
Kate: Jason, stop. I’m not your babysitter!
I smiled.
That afternoon, I faked a stomachache and got sent home.
Kate was on a Zoom call, typing fast.
“Back already?” she said.
“I don’t feel good.”
“Oh. Well… lie down, okay? I’ve got a Zoom call in five.”
I flopped on the couch with a groan. “Can you make me some ginger tea? Jessica always does when I’m sick.”
She turned her chair toward me. “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. Then turned back to her screen.
That night, Dad called a family meeting after dinner.
The way he said it made my stomach twist.
Dinner was quiet. Just forks clinking on plates.
Then he looked straight at me.
“Let’s settle this,” he said. “Jason, it’s time you called Kate what she is.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Kate raised her hand.
“Wait,” she said softly. “I need to say something.”
Her voice wasn’t fake this time. It was real.
“I pushed too hard,” she said. “I wanted that word—‘Mom’—because I thought it meant I belonged. I thought if you called me that, I’d finally feel important here.”
She looked down. Then back at me.
“But I skipped the part where I earned it. Jessica’s a great mother. I’m not trying to replace her.”
I stared at her. She wasn’t pretending. Not now.
Dad didn’t say anything. But something in his face changed. 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 opened Kate’s contact in my phone.
I changed her name to: Kate (Stepmom)
Some words aren’t for pretending. You only say them when they’re true.
