One autumn afternoon, my fathers second wife appeared at our doorstep. In her hands was a box brimming with sweets, and beside her trotted two little poodles, their tails wagging merrily.
My sister and I froze. We had heard so many dreadful tales of stepmotherscold, unfeeling women without lovethat we couldnt even muster a welcome.
But she took no offence. She simply smiledthat warm, steady smile that never seemed to leave her face. She was a lovely woman, with long dark hair and gentle eyes. Father introduced her without fuss: “This will be your new mother now.”
Too young to understand how difficult those words must have been for her, we met her with silence.
They married in a quiet ceremony, and soon she moved in with usinto a house still shadowed by grief. We had grown used to the gloom.
That first morning, she flung open every window, beckoning in the sunlight, and turned on the wireless. I still remember my sisters faceirritated by the brightness and the music, as though our quiet had been violated.
She cleaned the house with such care, as if she meant to wipe away not just dust, but sorrow too. When she passed my mothers portrait, I held my breathcertain she would remove it. But she only dusted it and placed it right at the heart of the wall.
That was when I accepted herwithout even realising.
In the kitchen, she was nothing short of a magician. She cooked dishes we had never tasted before, filling the house with their scents. So she won my fathers heartand slowly, ours too.
A year passed. The house was no longer dark. The pain was still there, but it had softened.
My mothers photograph still watched us from the parlour, but now our eyes no longer burned. We never called her “Mother,” and she never asked us to.
Patiently, she earned our trust. She gave us counsel, shielded us, covered our mistakes.
Then one day, Father didnt return home from work. At first, she wasnt alarmed, but as hours slipped by, her worry grew. Then came the callhis car had been found at the foot of a cliff. He had died instantly.
This was the second death of our childhoodthe day we learned nothing lasts forever.
After the funeral, we feared we would be separated. But she stayed.
She took a part-time job at a tea shop, devoting the rest of her time to us: walks in the park, music, dancing with the dogs, laughter.
We watched from a distance. But she never gave up.
One morning, I asked, “Wheres my ball?” She found it at once, smiling as she handed it to me. “If you dont want to play alone, Ill join you,” she said.
I shrugged. “Alright.”
She stepped barefoot into the garden, laughing like a child, kicking the ball clumsily as the poodles spun around her.
That was the day I truly began to love her.
My sister noticed. And little by little, she began to trust too.
By years end, our lives revolved entirely around her.
When I finished school, I never thought Id make it to university. But she had quietly saved up and enrolled me. When I found out, I wept with joy.
My sister became a nurse.
She wasnt our motherbut she chose to stay.
She could have left when Father died. She didnt.
And she became the mother we never expected.
Years passed. I became a solicitor and never left her side.
At thirty-three, she fell ill. I moved in to care for her, knowing how little time remained.
We buried her on a Monday in summer, beneath the trees. She hadnt wanted to lie beside Father. “That place belongs to your mother,” she had said.
Now we visit all three.
Red roses for Mother.
Jokes for Fatherhe loved to laugh.
And sweets for herjust as she liked.
Not every second chance ends happily.
But sometimes, someone walks into your life
and never leaves your heart.
Even when theyre gone.
