Two years after losing my wife, I remarried, hoping to give my daughter Sophie, 5, a sense of family again. Amelia seemed like a blessing kind, gentle, and Sophie adored her. But when I returned from my first business trip away, Sophie clung to me and whispered, “Daddy, new mom is different when you’re gone.”

She said Amelia locked herself in the attic with “weird noises” and was stricter than usual — no ice cream, cleaning her room alone. My heart sank. That night, when Amelia left our bed and went upstairs, I followed quietly and opened the attic door.

What I saw stunned me. The attic had been transformed into a magical playroom — pastel walls, fairy lights, books, and a tea table. Amelia turned, startled, and admitted she’d been trying too hard to be the “perfect mom,” channeling her own strict upbringing.

The next evening, we showed Sophie the room. Her eyes lit up. “Is this for me?” she whispered before throwing her arms around Amelia. Later, as I tucked Sophie in, she smiled sleepily. “New mom’s not scary. She’s nice.” And I finally felt it — we were becoming a real family.