And maybe loving imperfectly didn’t mean not loving at all.
That night, I hid the bear in my closet, behind winter coats and old shoes. I told myself I was protecting my stepdaughter again—shielding her from pain, from questions, from grief she didn’t need to carry.
Years passed.
My stepdaughter is sixteen now. Confident. Kind. Thriving in ways that make my heart ache with pride. She laughs easily. She trusts deeply. She calls me Mom without hesitation.
For illustrative purposes only
She doesn’t know about the phone call.
She doesn’t know about the bear.
Sometimes, late at night, I open my closet and take it out. I run my fingers over its worn fur and wonder what might have happened if I had said yes. If one last goodbye could have healed something—for both of them.
I don’t know if I’ll ever tell her the truth.
But lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe she deserves to know.
That she was loved twice.
That two women, in very different ways, gave her everything they had—even if one of them didn’t know how to stay.
