Stepmother by Default: The Love I Owe and the Love I Can’t Give

“You’re not my mom! So stop pretending you care.”

Ethan’s words slammed into me like a punch, sharp and deliberate, echoing in the kitchen where we stood among the chaos of dinner. The spaghetti I’d just drained slipped from my hand, splattering sauce across the counter. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to let the tears win. I could see Mike tense behind Ethan, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes darting between us like he wanted to disappear. But he said nothing.

I had been living with Mike for three years. Three years of birthdays, school concerts, and hastily scribbled notes left on the fridge. Three years of trying to find my place, somewhere between helpful adult and unwanted intruder. The truth is, I loved Mike. I still do. But Ethan’s mother, Rachel, had left a long shadow. She was alive, she called every night, and every weekend Ethan packed his bag and left for her townhouse across town. I never asked about her, but her presence was everywhere: in the old photos on Ethan’s dresser, in the stories he told, in the way he looked right through me when he was angry.

That night, after Ethan stormed upstairs, I scrubbed the counter with a fury I didn’t really feel. Mike lingered in the kitchen doorway, silent for so long I thought he’d left, too.

“He’s just a kid, Sarah,” Mike finally said, his voice soft, almost apologetic. “He doesn’t mean it.”

“I know,” I replied, but I didn’t know. Did he not mean it? Or did he mean it more than anything he’d ever said?

We sat in the living room, the TV flickering with some late-night infomercial, neither of us really watching. I wanted to ask Mike why nothing ever changed. Why, after all this time, I was still just the woman who made dinner and helped with homework—never the partner, never the parent. Why he wouldn’t marry me, or even talk about it anymore. But the words stuck in my throat.

The next morning, Ethan avoided me, grabbing a Pop-Tart and slamming the door behind him on the way to the bus. I sat at the table, staring at the cereal in my bowl going soggy, remembering the way my own mother used to braid my hair before school. I wondered if Ethan’s mother did that for him on the weekends—if he missed her so much when he was here that he needed to carve out space for her by pushing me away.

That night, Mike found me scrolling through jobs on my laptop. He sat across from me, rubbing his eyes. “Sarah,” he said, “I know this is hard, but he’ll come around. He just misses his mom.”

I closed my laptop. “Mike, do you see a future for us? For real? Because sometimes I feel like I’m just… temporary. Like I’m babysitting your life until you decide if you want me in it.”

He looked startled, hurt even, but didn’t deny it. “It’s not that simple. You know how Rachel is. She’d make things hell if we rushed things.”

“Rushed?” My voice wobbled. “Three years, Mike. I’ve been here three years. I tuck Ethan in, I go to his games, I make sure there’s food in the fridge. But when he yells at me, when he tells me I’ll never be his mom, you just stand there.”

Mike stared at his hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

Neither did I.

I started going to therapy, alone at first. I needed someone to tell me if I was a monster for feeling resentful, for loving Mike but not loving Ethan the way a mother should. My therapist, Dr. Harris, told me what I already knew: “You can’t force love. But you can choose kindness. You can set boundaries.”

One night, after another fight about Ethan refusing to eat anything I cooked, I sat on the porch steps with a mug of tea, shivering in the spring chill. Ethan appeared, his small frame outlined by the porch light. He hovered by the door, then sat beside me, knees pulled to his chest.

“I wish you’d stop trying so hard,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not my mom. I don’t want you to be.”

I swallowed, the words bitter. “Okay,” I said, and meant it. “I’m not trying to be your mom. But I care about you, Ethan. That’s not going to change.”

He didn’t answer, just stared out at the dark yard. But he didn’t leave, either.

Weeks turned into months. Mike and I fought more, about little things—money, chores, missed calls. But underneath it all was this: I wanted a family of my own. I wanted a child who chose me, who looked at me with something other than resentment. I wanted to be a mother, not a stand-in.

When I brought it up, Mike shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not ready. Not with things the way they are.”

I wondered if he’d ever be ready, or if he was just waiting for me to give up. Sometimes I thought about leaving, about packing my bags and driving back to my sister’s place in Ohio. But every time I pictured it, I saw Ethan’s face—defiant, lonely, scared. Was it fair to leave him, too?

One night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Mike was asleep beside me, his breathing steady. I thought about love—the kind you choose, the kind you’re born into, the kind you grow. I thought about how I’d love my own kids, fiercely and unconditionally. But did I owe that love to Ethan? Or was it enough to just be present, to care, to not try to replace a mother he didn’t want replaced?

The next morning, I found Ethan in the kitchen, pouring cereal. I sat across from him. “Ethan, I know I’m not your mom. I don’t want to take her place. But I hope we can find a way to live together, even if we don’t love each other the same way.”

He looked at me, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugged. “Okay.”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t acceptance. But it was something.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s enough to be present, to be kind, even if love doesn’t come easy. Am I wrong for wanting more—for myself, for Ethan, for Mike? Or is it okay to draw a line between the love I give and the love I can’t force?