On my 55th birthday, the last thing I expected was a car from my stepdaughter, Emily. Our relationship had always been complicated, distant even, despite my efforts over the years. She handed me the keys with a reserved smile, then said there was something else in the glove compartment. What I found there changed everything I believed about us.
Being a stepmom to a grieving child was like walking a tightrope loving but careful, close but not too close. Emily was just 12 when I married her dad, David, and though I tried to bond with her, she kept her distance. She was polite but detached, like I was always just her dad’s wife, not family. Even after David’s death, we lived together in quiet coexistence.
