I was ten years old when my mother remarried, and at that age, the world already felt confusing enough without adding another adult into the mix. When Jim stepped into our lives, I didn’t quite know what to make of him. He was polite, gentle, and patient, but to me he still felt like a stranger—someone who hadn’t been there for the scraped knees, the bedtime stories, or the long afternoons waiting for Mom to finish her shift.
I wasn’t unkind to him, but I kept my distance. Part of me believed that letting him in would somehow erase what life had been like before. And part of me refused to let anyone replace the idea of family I had carried in my heart for so long.
