I never thought a text could hurt so much—until my stepchildren’s mother told me I wasn’t welcome at their birthday. “You don’t have kids,” she wrote. What she didn’t know was how deeply I loved those boys—and what I had sacrificed for them. Noah and Liam, my 10-year-old twin stepsons, had been part of my life since they were five. I raised them through scraped knees, soccer practices, science projects, and sleepless nights. They called me by my name, but sometimes—by accident—they called me “Mom.” I never corrected them. When George,
their dad, and I married, I became their full-time caregiver. Their biological mom, Melanie, was in and out of their lives. Still, I respected her place and never tried to take her role. But when she abruptly canceled our birthday plans and banned me from the party, I was crushed. “You don’t have children,” her message said. What she didn’t know was I couldn’t have children. After struggling silently with infertility,