One autumn afternoon, my fathers second wife appeared at our door. She carried a box filled with sweets and two little poodles trotting beside her, tails wagging. My sister and I froze. We had heard so many grim tales of stepmotherscold, unfeeling womenthat we couldnt even murmur a welcome.
Yet she took no offence. She simply smiledthat warm, steady smile that never seemed to leave her face. She was a handsome woman, with long chestnut hair and gentle eyes. Father introduced her without ceremony: This is your new mother. Too young to grasp how difficult those words must have been for her, we met her with silence.
They married in a quiet ceremony, and soon she moved into our homea house still shadowed by grief. We had grown accustomed to the dark.
On her first morning, she flung open every window, inviting the sunlight in, and turned on the wireless. I still remember my sisters faceirritated by the brightness and the music, our quiet shattered. She cleaned the house with such care, as if determined to scrub away not only dust but sorrow. When she passed Mothers portrait, I held my breathcertain she would remove it. Instead, she dusted the frame and centered it on the wall.
That was the moment I accepted herthough I did not know it then.
In the kitchen, she was a marvel, conjuring dishes wed never tasted, filling the house with rich aromas. Slowly, she won Fathers heartand then ours.
A year passed. The house was no longer dark. The pain remained, but it had softened. Mothers photograph still watched us from the parlour, but it no longer burned our eyes to look at her. We never called her Mum, and she never asked us to.
Patiently, she earned our trust. She gave advice, shielded us, covered our mistakes.
Then one evening, Father did not come home. At first, she was calm, but as the hours stretched, her worry deepened. Then the call camehis car had been found at the bottom of a ravine. 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 sent away. But she stayed. She took a part-time job at a tea shop and devoted the rest of her time to uslong walks, music, laughing as the dogs danced around her. We watched her from a distance, but she never gave up.
One morning, I asked, Wheres my ball? She found it at once, handing it to me with a smile. If youd like company, Ill play too, she said.
Alright, I muttered with a shrug.
She went barefoot into the garden, laughing like a child, kicking the ball clumsily as the poodles circled her. That was the day I truly began to love her. My sister noticed. Little by little, she learned to trust as well.
By years end, our lives revolved around her.
When I finished school, I thought university was beyond me. But she had quietly saved and enrolled me herself. When I found out, I wept with gratitude. My sister trained as a nurse.
She was not our mother, but she chose to stay. She could have left when Father diedbut she didnt. And without us expecting it, she became the mother we never thought wed have.
Years passed. I became a solicitor and never strayed far from her side.
At thirty-three, she fell ill. I moved in to care for her. She knew her time was short, yet she never stopped smiling. I want you to laugh, she said. Dont weep for me.
We buried her on a Monday in summer, beneath the trees. She had not wished to lie beside Father. That place belongs to your mother, shed said.
Now we visit all three.
Red roses for Mother. Jokes for Fatherhe loved to laugh.
And for her, sweetsjust as she liked.
Not every second chance ends happily.
But sometimes, someone steps into your life
and never leaves your heart.
Even when theyre gone.
