Nicole often sat on the edge of her bed at night and wondered what she’d done wrong. Was it the rules? Was it the timing? Was she never supposed to be a “stepmom” in the first place?
She thought about her own childhood—divorced parents, new stepdads, strange houses. She remembered feeling like a guest in her own father’s living room.
Now she feared she was making Kayla feel the same.
One Saturday morning, she found Kayla asleep on the couch, her old duffle bag packed beside her. Derek was on the phone in the kitchen, whispering urgently. Kayla’s mom was coming to pick her up.
No one had discussed this with Nicole.
Kayla opened her eyes briefly and looked at her.
Nicole tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Kayla sat up, grabbed her bag, and said, “I don’t want to write letters anymore.”
Kayla left that afternoon.
She’s been back, occasionally—holidays, birthdays—but things have never been the same. She and Nicole are polite. Distant. The bridge Nicole tried to build with words and rules never fully formed.
Still, Nicole keeps the letters.
Every Sunday note, folded neatly in a shoebox under her bed. There are only five of them. But she rereads them sometimes.
In one, Kayla wrote: “I don’t know how to live in a place where I feel like I don’t belong. I’m trying. But I don’t know if it’s enough.”
Nicole reads that one the most.
She still hopes.
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