My father’s second wife showed up one day with a kilo of candy and two poodles.
My sister and I stared at her, terrified. Our friends had filled our heads with terrible stories about stepmothers, so we didn’t even say thank you.
But instead of being offended, she smiled. And she never stopped smiling.
She was a beautiful woman, with a kind face and long dark hair. My father introduced her without much ceremony: “She’ll be your new mom.”
I was too young to understand how out of place she must have felt. We welcomed her with icy silence.
They got married at city hall, and soon after, she moved in with us.
The house was steeped in the darkness of mourning. And we had gotten used to it.
On her first day, she opened all the windows, let the sunlight in, and put on music.
I remember my sister’s expression, bothered by the sudden light and the music breaking the silence we had grown familiar with.
She cleaned the house thoroughly, room by room, with such care that even a king would have felt at home.
She filled the shelves with books, and when she walked past Mom’s portrait, I thought she would take it down.
But she just dusted it off and placed it in the center of the wall.
That day, I accepted her — even if I had no idea how much she would change my life.
In the kitchen, she was a magician: strange and delicious dishes none of us had ever tasted. That’s how she won over my dad.
And my sister, little by little, started talking to her.
After a year, the grief from our mother’s illness had become a bit lighter, though forgetting her was impossible — her image continued to watch over us from the living room.
We never called her Mom. And she never asked us to.
She earned our trust with patience. She advised us, protected us, and covered for us when we got into trouble.
Years went by. Then, one day, Dad didn’t come home from work.
At first, she wasn’t worried. Then she spent hours on the phone until the news arrived: they had found Dad’s car at the bottom of a ravine. He had died instantly.
That was the second death of our childhood. And it forced us to understand that nothing lasts forever.
After the funeral, we were afraid they’d separate us and send us to an orphanage. But she didn’t leave. She stayed.
And she became even more present. She worked part-time at a restaurant, and the rest of the time she tried to lift us up: organizing walks, dancing with her dogs, blasting music.
We watched her from a distance, in silence. But she didn’t give up.
One day, I asked her where my ball was. It was a sunny morning after months of rain and sadness.
She found it immediately and handed it to me with a huge smile.
As I walked out, she said, “If you don’t want to play alone, I’ll join you.”
“Okay,” I shrugged.
She came down to the garden, not knowing how to kick a ball, laughing like a child, followed by her dogs.
We played, and then she invited us in for a snack.
Her snacks were always special. She didn’t have much, but she knew how to turn every table into a little event.
That day, I started to truly love her. And I wasn’t afraid to show it.
My sister noticed the change in me. A bit more cautiously, she began to trust too.
By the end of that year, our lives revolved around her, even if none of us said it out loud.
But she knew. And she gave us back all the love we needed, with a tenderness and sincerity that completely won us over.
When I finished school, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to go to college.
But she had saved money and secretly enrolled me. When I found out, I cried from joy.
My sister graduated as a nurse.
I knew I could never repay her. She wasn’t our mother. She could’ve left after Dad died. But she stayed. And she became the mother we never expected.
The years passed. I became a lawyer. I stayed close to my sister and to her.
When I turned thirty-three, she got sick.
I moved in to be with her. She knew she didn’t have much time left.
Despite everything, she still smiled. She made us promise we wouldn’t cry for her.
“I want laughter,” she said.
We buried her on a summer Monday. She didn’t want to be placed next to Dad: “That spot is for your mother,” she said.
She chose a quiet corner, under the trees.
We visit all three of them.
Red roses for Mom.
Jokes for Dad, who loved to laugh.
And candy for her — just like she asked.
Sometimes second chances don’t go well.
But every now and then, someone truly wonderful comes into our lives…
and never leaves our hearts.
Even when they’re gone.