I expected my stepmom to smile, maybe get a little teary, and say something polite. Instead, she erupted.
“It should’ve been my name,” she snapped. “I’m the one who raised you!”
I lay in the hospital bed, sore and exhausted, holding this tiny new life, while my stepmother made my daughter’s name about herself. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I just turned to Eva and let it pass.
For weeks, she ignored me. No texts, no calls, no “how are you feeling?” or “how’s the baby?” It hurt more than I expected. We’d always had a complicated relationship, but she had shown up for the practical things—rides, lunches, school paperwork—after my mom died. She’d never be my mother, but she had been there. Continue reading…
