“Call Me Mom,” She Said – But I Wasn’t Ready to Forget
When my new stepmother told me to start calling her “Mom,” I didn’t argue. I didn’t roll my eyes or complain either.
I just waited. Watched.
She thought she could become my mom overnight.
She thought I’d just forget the real one.
So on her birthday, I gave her exactly what she wanted.
But let me start from the beginning.
The house was so quiet that morning, it almost hurt my ears.
The only sounds were the ticking clock on the wall…
…and the soft flip of Dad turning a page in his newspaper.
He did that every Saturday. Same table. Same chair. Same silence.
I sat on the couch, barely moving. I knew better than to make noise.
Dad hated that in the morning.
His voice came out flat. “You got homework?”
“Yeah,” I answered, not looking up. “I’ll do it later.”
“Don’t wait till the last minute.”
“I won’t.”
And that was it.
He didn’t ask what subject.
Didn’t ask if I needed help.
He never did.
He always said, “If you can’t figure it out, you weren’t paying attention in class.”
I looked down at my hand. The scar on my knuckle was still there.
A tiny white line across my skin.
I got it when I was about five or six. I fell off my bike.
Back then, I was crying, knees scraped, palms stinging.
Dad stood over me, arms crossed.
“You’re not dying. Boys get hurt. Stand up.”
So I did. I stood up, bleeding and silent.
When I used to have nightmares, I’d tiptoe to his door.
But he never came out.
From behind the door, I’d hear, “Go back to sleep, Jason. You’re fine.”
So I stopped knocking after a while.
I didn’t ask for new toys.
Didn’t ask for clothes unless mine had holes.
I knew the rules.
Still, I respected him. He worked hard.
He always had food on the table.
He came to every school event—even if he stood at the back and didn’t clap.
He was there. Just…quiet.
That day, I got up and walked over to the old bookshelf.
We didn’t have many pictures, but I knew where to look.
I reached behind some books and pulled out the one I liked best—
A tiny photo of me sitting on Dad’s shoulders.
I was around four.
We both had a weird little half-smile, like we weren’t sure if it was okay to be happy.
I was staring at the photo when I heard footsteps behind me.
That was the day she came back.
I was seven years old the first time I saw her—my real mom.
Dad opened the door.
I peeked around his leg.
There she was, standing with a bright blue gift bag in her hand.
She looked nervous. Her eyes were shiny, like she was holding back tears.
Her smile looked stretched, like it hurt to keep it in place.
“Hi, Jason,” she said. Her voice was soft, shaky.
I whispered, “Who’s that?”
She crouched down, still holding the bag.
“It’s me, sweetie. I’m Jessica. I’m your mom.”
I looked up at Dad.
He crossed his arms and said, “She wanted to see you.”
I didn’t move. I had heard stories about her.
Seen old pictures.
She wasn’t ready to be a mom when I was born, and she disappeared.
She was like a ghost to me.
But she smiled again and said, “I got you something. It’s not much. Just… I thought you might like it.”
She held out the bag.
Inside was a small, green stuffed turtle. Soft shell. Tiny smile stitched on.
I still have it.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
Dad cleared his throat. “You can stay for lunch.”
Jessica’s eyes widened. “Really? That’s okay?”
He didn’t answer. Just turned toward the kitchen.
And that’s how it began.
After that, she started visiting more.
Sometimes she took me out.
To the zoo once.
To the aquarium another time.
I remember the jellyfish—floating like glowing ghosts.
She asked me, “Do you like drawing?”
No one had ever asked me that before.
We painted together one day. I made a huge blue streak across the paper.
She laughed. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”
I told her, “Dad doesn’t like messes.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m not your dad.”
She asked me questions all the time:
“What’s your favorite color?”
“What books do you like?”
We started texting.
Me: Got an A in spelling.
Her: That’s amazing! So proud of you!
Me: I miss the turtles.
Her: Let’s go see them this weekend.
Dad never said much about her.
But he didn’t stop her either.
One day, I saw them talking on the porch.
He wasn’t yelling.
She was smiling.
He nodded.
That felt like a win.
Then came Kate.
I got home from school one day and found her in the kitchen.
She was lining up plates like she was on a cooking show.
Lipstick bright red.
Smile too wide to be real.
“There you are!” she said. “Just in time. Can you help me set the table, sweetie?”
I dropped my backpack. “Sure.”
“Make sure you save a seat for Mom,” she said, pointing to herself with both hands like I might forget who she meant.
I froze. My hands hovered over the plates.
Then I said calmly, “Sure. I’ll set a spot for Kate.”
Her smile twitched. Barely.
Then she rubbed her temples like she had a headache coming on.
Dinner that night was mostly her voice.
She talked about throw pillows.
Cake flavors.
How her birthday was coming up.
“I can’t believe it’s just around the corner,” she said, sipping her water.
“I wonder what everyone’s planning for me.”
She looked straight at me.
I stayed quiet.
Dad was chewing slow, staring at his plate.
Then she said, “You know, I’ve never heard someone call me ‘Mom’ before. Bet it would sound really nice coming from you. I am your full-time mom now, you know.”
I stabbed a piece of broccoli. My eyes were stinging, but I didn’t let the tears fall.
Dad looked at me. That look meant Don’t cry.
That night, I texted Jessica.
Me: She wants me to call her “Mom.” She doesn’t even know what cereal I like.
Jessica: She hasn’t earned it. But you’ll handle it.
And I would.
Her birthday came the next week.
Early in the morning, I knocked on her bedroom door.
She opened it in her robe, blinking. “Jason? Everything okay?”
I smiled wide. “Happy birthday, Mom!”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh! Thank you, sweetie! That means the world to me.”
“I was hoping you could make my favorite birthday breakfast.”
She blinked. “Your what?”
“You know… the one we always had every year since I was little?”
She hesitated. “Right. That one… Uh, what was in it again?”
I tilted my head. “Come on. You’re my full-time mom. Aren’t you supposed to know?”
She laughed nervously. “Well… Let me surprise you!”
Ten minutes later, she served me scrambled pancakes.
I ate them with a smile. Took a picture. Sent it to Jessica.
Me: Breakfast chaos. She made scrambled pancakes.
At school, the next phase began.
Me (to Kate): Got an A on my essay, Mom!
(No reply)
Me: Feeling sleepy after gym. Burrito or sandwich?
(Nothing)
Me: French quiz went okay. We’re watching a movie now 🙂
Finally, she responded.
Kate: Good job.
I kept texting.
By fourth period:
Kate: Busy right now.
By sixth:
Kate: Jason. I’m in a meeting.
End of the day:
Kate: Jason, stop. I’m not your babysitter!
I grinned at my screen.
That afternoon, I faked a stomachache and got sent home.
Kate was on her laptop when I walked in.
“Back already?” she said.
“I don’t feel good.”
“Oh. Well… go lie down, okay? I’ve got a Zoom call in five.”
I dropped onto the couch with a groan. “Could you make me some ginger tea? Jessica always does when I’m sick.”
She turned in her chair. “Jason, I really don’t have time. Maybe later.”
I nodded. “Full-time moms don’t clock out.”
She stared at me. Then turned back to her screen, silent.
That night, Dad said we were having a family meeting.
I knew what it was about.
I just didn’t know how it would end.
Dinner was quiet.
Then Dad set his napkin down.
“Let’s settle this,” he said. “Jason, it’s time you called Kate what she is.”
I opened my mouth, but Kate lifted her hand.
“Wait,” she said. Her voice was soft. Different.
“I pushed too hard,” she said. “I wanted to hear that word—‘Mom’—because I thought it meant I belonged. I thought it would make me feel important.”
She looked down, then met my eyes.
“But I skipped the part where I earned it. Jessica’s a great mom. I’m not here to replace her.”
I stared at her. For once, she wasn’t fake.
She was real.
Dad said nothing. But something shifted in his face.
Like he finally respected her, too.
I nodded slowly. “Thank you. I don’t know what to call you yet. But I appreciate that.”
That night, I texted Jessica.
Me: It’s over. She apologized. Didn’t expect that.
Jessica: You handled it with heart. I’m proud of you.
I smiled and changed Kate’s contact name in my phone.
Kate (Stepmom)
Some words you don’t say just because someone tells you to.
You say them when they’re true.
