When my new stepmother insisted I start calling her “Mom,” I didn’t argue — I just watched and waited. She thought she could fill my mother’s place overnight. On her birthday, I gave her exactly what she asked for.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Dad sat at the table, flipping through the newspaper like he did every Saturday. He didn’t make a sound, not even when he turned the page. Just the rustle of paper and the ticking clock on the wall.

I sat on the couch, trying not to move too much. He hated noise in the morning.

“You got homework?” he asked, eyes still on the page.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll do it later.”

“Don’t wait till the last minute.”

“I won’t.”

That was all. He didn’t ask what subject or if I needed help. He never did. He said if I couldn’t figure it out myself, I hadn’t paid attention in class.

I looked at my hand. The scar on my knuckle was still there. I got it when I fell off my bike. I must’ve been six or five.

Back then, I cried. He stood over me and said, “You’re not dying. Boys get hurt. Stand up.”

I did.

When I had nightmares, I’d go to his door. He never got out of bed. He just said, “Go back to sleep, Jason. You’re fine.” So I stopped knocking.

I never asked for toys or new clothes unless mine had holes. I knew better.

Still, I respected him. He worked hard. He kept us fed. He showed up to every school event. Just didn’t say much.

I wandered over to the bookshelf. We didn’t keep many pictures, but I found the little one in the back. A photo of me, maybe four years old, sitting on his shoulders. We both had this weird half-smile. It felt rare. Strange.

I smiled a little, then heard footsteps behind me. That was the day she came back. I was seven the first time I saw her.

Dad opened the door, but I peeked around his side.

She stood there holding a bright blue gift bag. Her eyes were big. Kind of watery. Her smile was too wide.

“Hi, Jason,” she said. Her voice shook.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

She crouched down, still holding the bag. “It’s me, sweetie. I’m Jessica, your mom.”

I looked up at Dad.

He crossed his arms. “She wanted to see you.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t know what to say. I’d seen pictures, sure. Heard a few stories. I knew she wasn’t ready to be a mom when I got born. She was a ghost to me.

“I got you something,” she said. “It’s not much. Just… I thought you might like it.”

She held the bag out. I took it. Inside was a small stuffed turtle. Green with a soft shell. I still have it.

“Thanks,” I said.

Dad cleared his throat. “You can stay for lunch.”

She looked surprised. “Really? That’s okay?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked to the kitchen.

That was the start.

After that, she came by more often. Sometimes she took me out. Once to the zoo. Once to an aquarium. I remember the jellyfish. They glowed under the lights, like slow balloons.

“Do you like drawing?”

I didn’t know how to answer half of them. No one ever asked me that stuff before. But I liked it.

We painted once. She told me it didn’t matter if it was messy.

“You’re allowed to make mistakes,” she said.

I looked at the blue streak I made across the paper. “Dad doesn’t like messes.”She laughed a lot. Asked me questions. “What’s your favorite color?” “What books do you like?”

She smiled softly. “Well, I’m not your dad.”

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 say much about her visits. But he didn’t stop them either. Once, I saw him and her talking on the porch. He wasn’t yelling. She was smiling. He even nodded at something she said.

That felt like a win.

Things were okay. For a while, anyway. Then, Kate, my father’s new wife, showed up.

I got home from school and walked into the kitchen. Kate was standing at the counter, lining up plates like she was preparing for a cooking show. She had on this big smile—too big—and her lipstick was a shade of red that didn’t belong in a kitchen.

“There you are!” she said. “Just in time. Can you help me set the table, sweetie?”

I dropped my bag by the door.

“Sure.”

“Make sure you save a seat for Mom,” she said, pointing to herself with both hands like I might forget who she meant.

I paused for a second. My hands were already reaching for the plates, but I stopped.

“Sure,” I said, keeping my face straight. “I’ll set a spot for Kate.”

Her smile twitched. Not much, just a little. Then, she started massaging her temples.

Dinner was quiet except for her talking. She talked about the new throw pillows she bought, the kind of cake she liked, and how her birthday was coming up soon.

“Can’t believe it’s just around the corner,” she said, sipping her water. “I wonder what everyone’s planning for me.” She looked right at me when she said it.

I didn’t say anything. Dad was chewing slowly, not looking at either of us.

“Oh, and you know,” she added, “I’ve never heard someone call me ‘Mom’ before. Bet it would sound really nice coming from you. I’m your full-time mom now, you know.”

I stabbed my broccoli and kept chewing, even though my eyes were stinging. Dad shot me a look — the kind that made it clear tears weren’t allowed.

Later that night, I texted 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 knocked on her door early that morning.

She opened it, still in her robe. “Jason? Everything okay?”

I smiled wide. “Happy birthday, Mom!”

She blinked. Then smiled back, brighter than I’d ever seen. “Oh, thank you, sweetie! That means the world to me.”

“I was hoping you could make my favorite birthday breakfast.”

She looked confused. “Your what?”

“You know. The one we had every year since I was little?”

“Uh… right. That one.” She rubbed her temple. “What was in it again?”

I tilted my head. “Come on. You’re my full-time mom. Aren’t you supposed to know?”

She laughed awkwardly. “Well, let me just surprise you.”

Ten minutes later, I had scrambled pancakes. I ate them without complaining. Took a photo and sent it to Jessica.

Me: Breakfast chaos. She made scrambled pancakes.

At school, I started my next part of the plan.

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. We’re watching a movie in class now. 🙂

Ten minutes later, she replied: “Good job.”

I kept going. Every class period. Every lunch break. Every moment.

By fourth period, she wrote: “Busy right now.”

By sixth: “Jason. I’m in a meeting.”

By the end of the day: “Jason, stop. I’m not your babysitter!”

I smiled.

That afternoon, I faked a stomachache in the nurse’s office and got sent home early. Kate was on her laptop when I walked in.

“Back already?” she said.

“I don’t feel good.”

“Oh. Well… go lie down, okay? I’ve got a Zoom call in five.”

I dropped onto the couch with a groan. “Could you make me some ginger tea? Jessica always does when I’m sick.”

She turned in her chair. “Jason, I really don’t have time. I’ve got slides to review. Maybe later.”

I nodded slowly. “Full-time moms don’t clock out.”

She stared at me for a moment. Then turned back to her screen without saying anything.

That night, Dad told us we were having a family meeting after dinner. Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist.

I knew what it was about. I just didn’t expect what came next.

Dinner was quiet. Forks clinked. No one said much. Then, Dad set his napkin down and looked at me.

“Let’s settle this,” he said. “Jason, it’s time you called Kate what she is.”

I took a breath. “I—”

Kate held up her hand. “Wait. I need to say something first.”

Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard it.

“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 at her plate, 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. For once, she wasn’t acting. She was just being real. Dad said nothing. But I saw something shift in his face. 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 my real Mom.

Me: It’s over. She apologized. Didn’t expect that.

Jessica: You handled it with heart. I’m proud of you.

I smiled, then changed Kate’s contact.

Kate (Stepmom)

Some words you don’t say because you’re told. You say them when they’re true.