Henry and I have been together for seven years now. In all that time, we’ve not had children of our own—it simply never happened. There were attempts, tears, hopes, doctors, but so far, nothing. Yet Henry has two sons from his first marriage. The eldest is fifteen, the youngest ten.
From the very start, there was an unspoken shadow over us—he was a father, and I… what was I to them? A stepmother? A guardian? Just the woman living with their father?
Three months into our courtship, Henry and I had our first proper row. He said to me then:
*”I think you don’t accept my boys. You don’t even try to love them.”*
I snapped back:
*”Why should I love another woman’s children? I didn’t bring them into this world. I didn’t swaddle them. I wasn’t there in those first sleepless nights. I didn’t hear their first ‘Mummy.’ I don’t have that primal motherly instinct for them. It’s not cruelty—it’s the truth.”*
Some would judge me harshly. Call me cold, unfeeling. But I’ve never raised a hand to them, never shouted, never turned them away. I care for them. Help with their schoolwork. Cook, wash clothes, listen. And yes, I’ve grown fond of them—deeply so. Especially the youngest. He reaches for me, asks my advice, hugs me unprompted. He knows I’m not his mother. Yet he’s not afraid to come close.
But love… Love isn’t born only from childbirth. Those first months—when you scarcely sleep, when you learn to be a mother alongside your child—that forges a bond. And I know I don’t have that. Never will. I can be their best friend, their steady shoulder, but never their mother. And I won’t pretend otherwise.
When people declare *“there’s no such thing as another’s child,”* I want to ask:
*”Have you raised a child who calls another woman ‘Mum’? Who puts you second yet expects everything from you—without return?”*
It’s hard. Sometimes it brings me to tears. Nights when I lie awake wondering: What if tomorrow one of them tells me they hate me? That I’ve no right to be near? My heart aches then—because I’m not made of stone. I want to be needed. Not as a mother, but as someone dear.
We spoke plainly from the beginning, Henry and I. No illusions, no fairy tales. I told him outright:
*”I won’t love them like a mother. But I’ll be good to them. I’ll make sure they feel safe with me.”*
There’s been no strife between us since. He’s never demanded *“motherhood”* from me, and I’ve never played the *“perfect mummy.”* But in our home, there’s honesty. And from that honesty, a strong and peculiar bond has grown.
And do you know the most surprising thing? Not long ago, the youngest drew a picture at school. There was a house, his father, himself… and me.
Beneath it, he’d written:
*”This is my family. And this is Elizabeth. She’s not my mum, but she’s kind. I love her.”*
I wept. Not because he didn’t call me *“Mum.”* But because he called me *“kind.”* That’s more than a title—it’s trust.
Sometimes I wonder: If Henry and I had a child together, would I understand that *“blood love”*? But without it, I live on, growing alongside these boys. And though I’m not their mother—I’m here. And that, at times, means more than pretty words.
