What is Mothers Day as a former stepmom?

When someone asks me if I have kids, I struggle to answer. The technical truth is no, but that doesn’t tell the whole story.

For decades, I was sure I’d be a mom. I wanted it more than anything in life, but at age 44, with two divorces and three ex-stepchildren, Mother’s Day brims with anxiety. How can I explain that I sort of was a mom once, but now I’m not? That those children, who I have no claim to, are still part of my life? And that their mother, the ex-wife of my now ex-husband, who I was never supposed to like, is now my friend, and one of the first people I honor on this holiday?

My dream of becoming a mom was partially realized when I married a man with three beautiful children. The twin boys were 5, almost 6 when I met them, and the girl had just turned 4. They probably would have loved any maternal figure their dad introduced to them, and I was simply lucky it was me.

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From the moment I met them, I fell in love. I spent my weeks balancing a demanding work schedule and planning activities for the two nights and alternating weekends the kids were at our house.

That first summer, I invented an activity called a “bug safari.” I looked up every type of insect and creature that may live in our wooded, suburban area and created a printable template for each of them, complete with boxes to check off when they spotted an ant, a caterpillar, a spider, a worm.

My husband installed a small door in his daughter’s bedroom, meant for an imaginary fairy to deliver gifts. That fairy lived rent-free in our hearts for all the speculation on when she’d next bring a little treat.

Every night, we sat in a circle after reading books and each of us talked about our favorite part of the day. We then held hands and recited a meditation, “May we be happy, may we be healthy, and may we live life with ease.” Life with children was everything I imagined.

And I will never forget my first Mother’s Day as a stepmom. All three kids came booming into our bedroom on the Friday morning before the official Sunday holiday. The boys made decorated brown paper lunch bags with flowers cut from construction paper. My stepdaughter exuded her signature silly smile, then handed me a plaque that said: “I love you more than bacon.”

I thought our family would last forever, but their dad and I abruptly divorced, and I was no longer a stepmother. The bacon sign still sits in my kitchen, but I feared the bedtime rituals and magical fairies would vanish along with my temporary, makeshift family.

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The loss of my status as a stepmom is something I sometimes still wonder how I survived. Alone in a house screaming in silence with three empty children’s bedrooms, I didn’t know how I’d dismantle the life we built. Was I to pack and stow our animal-shaped cookie cutters, the matching pajamas, and the refrigerator magnets boasting “Home Sweet Home” and “Family Forever”? I clutched stuffed animals while soaking their pillows with tears.

And what about the things I couldn’t pack up? That feeling when the kids came home from school, alight with energy as though their little voices made the veins of the house pulse with happiness. Or the moments just before bedtime when they sweetly begged for one more story?

What would the kids call me then? Their ex-stepmom? I’d never heard of that and didn’t want to call them my ex-anything. Can you even technically be a former parent? I always knew it never turned out well for stepmoms in fairy tales, but this seemed the worst possible ending.

I knew from the time I married my ex-husband that should we split up, I had no legal claim to see his kids. One of my best friends, a divorce attorney, said that in extremely rare cases former stepparents, and sometimes grandparents, successfully appeal to a judge for partial custody, but I’d be lucky to get an afternoon once a month. I never actually considered taking legal action. Besides, a monthly play date was a far cry from living with them 40 percent of the time, as the co-parenting schedule dictated while I was married.

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The kids’ mom had no obligation to ever speak to me, and it wasn’t as though we were friends before the divorce. Our relationship was cordial, limited to fleeting niceties on driveways and in foyers during pickups and drop-offs. If she were anything like the other moms on the bleachers at the boys’ basketball games, I’d expect an eye roll or to be flat-out shunned. Moms seemed to stick together, like it was an unspoken code to ignore a stepmom.

After I separated from my then-husband, not even a week went by before I got a call from her. The phone buzzed in my hand, and I began shaking, worrying about what she might say. Did she hate me? Was she going to yell? I had no idea. She asked a simple question. “Hey, do you want to take [her] to gymnastics practice this afternoon?” I was stunned. And thrilled. And probably blubbered a choppy reply in the affirmative. There was nothing I ever wanted more.

From that moment, I knew the picture my ex-husband painted of her was completely out of focus. She was nothing like he described. But why hadn’t I ever gotten to know her? She and I were the same age, from a similar upbringing, with shared values. And we both married the same man. I realized then that we should have been friends all along.

She told me the kids cried for me. That they missed me desperately. That they didn’t understand why I couldn't just move into her house and all live together. While I knew that wouldn’t be appropriate, I eventually wrote each of them a letter letting them know I’d always be there for them.

The kids are now in their teenage years, and I still get to see them regularly. Their mom and I talk about … everything. Her kids, life after divorce, the best restaurants in Las Vegas. We celebrate holidays and birthdays together. I get the occasional FaceTime from her daughter to show me her new skin care products or unboxed birthday gifts. Even now, six years later, my two ex-stepsons know that if time goes by and we don’t talk or see each other as often, I will still always be happy to hear from them.

Sometimes I feel strange being celebrated on Mother’s Day. I worry about diminishing the holiday for those who have actually raised children, made tough choices and given their lives to mothering. But, ultimately, I hope the day is meant to celebrate all women who are a positive influence on children.

Above all, I honor my ex-husband’s ex-wife on Mother’s Day. In her, I found someone I consider a dear friend. She graciously redefined family for me — and for the three loves of my life.

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