I have a real-life stepdaughter now. She is seven years old and although we love each other dearly and I would protect her with my life, I am not her mother. She has a mother. Our blended family is happy. But I believe, probably more strongly than I believe anything else, that the only way to keep it so is to acknowledge and accept that no matter how happy we are, our children did not want this. They have suffered the loss of both of their parents together, day in and day out. When I researched the history of stepfamilies, I learned that the very meaning of the prefix “step” is suffused with this sadness. I always assumed that “step” referred either to being a step removed from motherhood, or stepping in to take on the role of mother. But according to the Oxford English Dictionary, “step” comes from the Anglo-Saxon “steop.” It means “bereaved.”
Do we tell a bereaved child that the thing making them so sad simply doesn’t exist? Because I will never be Carol Brady, am I supposed to shut up and go away? From my daughter and stepdaughter’s vantage points, it’s easy to see how “evil” can stand in for “complicated and sad.” I think I serve them better by embracing the complexity, by whatever name the fairy tales give it, than I do by pretending it all away.
So I welcome this column as a chance to bring stepmothers back to the stage. We have a hell of a lot to say. And if—like so much of the history of women in the public sphere—that means I’m considered evil for speaking my mind, then bring it on. Evil I shall be.
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