The night my husband’s ex-wife called, my chest tightened. She wanted to see her daughter one last time before risky surgery. My stepdaughter was six, and I had been there every day of her life since her mother left.
“She’s my daughter now,” I said firmly, and hung up.
Two days later, she died. I didn’t cry—only felt the silence linger.
A month later, a package arrived: a worn teddy bear from my stepdaughter’s early years, with a note acknowledging her love, even from afar. I held it, feeling the weight of years and regret, and hid it—protecting my daughter from questions she didn’t need.
Now sixteen, my stepdaughter calls me Mom without hesitation. She doesn’t know about the call or the bear. Sometimes, I touch it at night, wondering what might have been—but I know one thing: she was loved twice, in different ways, both fiercely.