Non-Breeder: The Reluctant Stepmother
Learning to play house.
by Lisa Selin Davis
April 9, 2007
Only in those three weeks overseas, Kim had grown fiercely attached to her mother. Night-night phone calls ended with, "I miss you, Mama," whereas before she'd been indifferent to the ritual, content to be with whichever parent, or stand-in, was there to tuck her in. She'd moan "Mama," as if on her deathbed and murmuring "rosebud."
"I love this," I told her. "Keep it up." The anger in my voice frightened me.
We took Kim to the wedding in an opalescent green dress. She darted from us the minute she saw her mother. She cried when we seated her at our table during the reception. Rich and I growled at each other on the dance floor when she scurried out from between us. All my self-help books and philosophizing on stepmother-as-big-sister couldn't prepare me for the reality that descended then: I was sort of okay with being her stepmother; being his wife was harder. Our relationship wasn't strong enough to sustain the constant, pounding pressure of stepparenting.
Rich's sister's ex-husband was giving a toast. Everyone was handling it beautifully, graciously, behaving like adults.Our relationship wasn't strong enough to sustain the constant, pounding pressure of stepparenting. Handshakes and near-convincing smiles and small talk, and I just bowed my head down on the table and began to cry.
"What?" Rich pulled my hair away from the béchamel sauce on my plate. "What's going on?"
I looked up at him, at his deep blue eyes and his juicy lips: he has a beautiful face, a real handsome mug. "What is it?" he asked again.
I shook my head. I said, "I'm done."
When we told Kim that she and her father would be getting their own place, she smiled and said, "Now I get to sleep in the big bed with Daddy!" Something sealed up between them as soon as I stepped away. They found an apartment one subway stop away, so I could see them regularly. I still picked her up from school. I made my exit slowly, so she wouldn't notice.
Rich painted over the unicorn while I was away. I came home one Sunday night and there was the space that had been hers, all white, our little life together erased.
©2007 Lisa Selin Davis and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Lisa Selin Davis is the author of the novel Belly (Little Brown) and a freelance journalist. Her articles have appeared in The New York Times, Interior Design, New York and This Old House. |
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