I hated my stepmom, Janet, from the moment she entered our lives. She felt fake, like she was only with my dad for convenience. They never acted like a real couple — more like polite roommates — and I was sure she was just waiting to replace my mom’s memory.

One day her wallet fell open, and a photo of my late mom slipped out. Rage shot through me. I accused her of keeping “souvenirs of our pain.” Janet’s face went pale, and in a shaky voice she said, “It’s time you knew the truth.”

She told me she and my mom had been best friends — practically sisters. Before my mom died, she asked Janet to stay close and protect me. She married my dad not for love or comfort, but to honor my mom’s final wish and ensure I’d be raised kindly, not by someone who’d mistreat me. My dad agreed because Janet was the one person he trusted to love me like she would.

All those years I resented her, she was quietly keeping a promise made out of love. Now we’re rebuilding, slowly. I still can’t call her “Mom,” but I finally see her the way my mother did — as someone who showed up when it mattered most.