Stepmothers and daughters: blending a family
When Barbara Meakin* fell in love with a widower who had a daughter, she thought she was walking into a fairy tale. Instead, she found herself embarking on the emotional journey of her life
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6 minute read
When I met a clever, kind handsome man with a beautiful 11-year-old daughter, it seemed like a dream come true. I was 49 years old and had always wanted children, but that had never happened for me. When he asked me to marry him on my birthday in Venice, it was the happiest day of my life. At our wedding, we included a prayer for children. I was determined to be a mother to J. I wanted to fill that gap in her life.
It had started well. J and I had our first meeting over a litter of puppies at a street party. She loved them. I loved them. She was earning points to get a puppy and I suggested to her father that, as she was obviously going to get the puppy anyway, why not let her have it now? It was the summer holiday and sheโd have time to enjoy itโฆ He wisely gave way. J was delighted and associated that happiness with me.
I held back initially โ it was her pet. But, when the dog started refusing to come back on walks, my husband suggested that we find a way of managing her or look for a new owner. I felt as if giving up on the dog would somehow be giving up on my relationship with J. I was in a bit of a panic, never having had my own dog , but threw myself into it. Compared to people, dogs are, literally, a walk in the park. You feed them, love them and they hurl that love back at you to the power of 10. So far, so good.
Then I tried to train J. Big mistake. I suggested that she tidy her room, help with the washing-up and have her turn to get drinks for the family. My husbandโs hackles rose. I probably did it in a tone like my own motherโs; she was a head teacher and Iโd always done lots in the house when I was a child. What I failed to get was that J was already in a set parenting style. My husband, his friends and family were always telling me that I was the exact opposite of his first wife. She was a great manager, businesswoman and homemaker. Iโm creative, scattered and impulsive. I got depressed.
Whatโs my job?
While I struggled, my husband became even more protective of J. He believed in giving her a relatively easy life to compensate, in part, for her losing her mum. He took over both roles โ mother and father. But where did that leave me?
I looked for the gaps, to try to win Jโs affection and find my niche in the family. She likes food but is picky. I can cook, so we went through her motherโs old cookery books in an attempt to find meals she might like. She was polite, but most of my attempts were flops. If she liked something one week, sheโd be off it the next. I suggested going to have a makeover together and shopping trips โ her response became increasingly lukewarm. It was clear she didnโt want me to try so hard.
On our first wedding anniversary, J gave us a card, then ran off. My husband found her hiding, ashamed sheโd been disloyal to her mum. That first year, I also got a Motherโs Day card. It was utterly unexpected and I was elated. It was the only time. Another year, there was a Motherโs Day card with a thistle on it knocking around the house. Was it for me? If so, why wasnโt anything written in it? Was the thistle symbolic? Had she bought it or had he? I tied myself in knots. I googled โstepmum of child with deceased motherโ โ nothing remotely helpful out there.
I was overtaken by rages. I resented each pile of washing, every bit of tidying. I fuelled my fury with my motherโs words, โWhat am I, the cleaning lady?โ There were other litanies: โHe treats her like a princess โ he butters her toast; he carries her bags. I do everything!โ I slammed around, feeling like Cinderella, โMutter, mutter, feminism! Mutter, mutter, emotional labour!โ
I was convinced it was only a matter of time before the whole thing split apart. I felt like the Greek god Tantalus, sitting in a river surrounded by unreachable fruit. That fruit was the golden father-daughter unit. J addressed almost everything she said to him, as if I wasnโt there. As she got older, they started watching gory action movies together. I couldnโt help thinking this was a convenient ruse to shut me out, as I hate that kind of film. I took everything personally. When my mother-in-law said, unprompted, โYou are not the outsider, you know,โ I had my label. I was the outsider. The real story was between them โ and his late wife.
It wasnโt until I realised I was acting out Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier that things began to improve. I was obsessed with that book as a child. And now I was playing the victim second wife, haunted by a ghost, ranting like Mrs Danvers, the grief-stricken housekeeper. Iโve always been a drama queen. I went to sleep one night realising Iโd fallen prey to evil stepmother syndrome. I had to get out of it. When I opened my eyes in the morning, I remembered a self-help course Iโd been on decades ago โ โVictim, persecutor, rescuerโ.
Sorrow and expectation
It took an hour to read A Game Free Life by Stephen Karpman. Itโs old but gold, as they say. That led to another book, Bouncing Back, Rewiring Your Brain For Maximum Resilience (New World Library, ยฃ15.99), by Linda Graham. I read it, slowly, and did all the exercises twice. I began to deal with my rage and grief compassionately. They were clearly just my stuff. My father died when I was four and I had a fantasy of what I thought a family should be.
Before I met my husband, Iโd avoided family situations and my grief about not having my own children. Now, I was in the thick of it. These were two primal sorrows that were nothing to do with my marriage or my role as a stepmother. I finally admitted I was jealous. I wanted a child like J to love and be loved by. I wanted to be โspoiledโ like her. I began to listen to my feelings with understanding. Once I got the knack of comprehending my responses, my volatility began to decrease. I would retreat into a space I privately dubbed my โwomb roomโ.
Iโm condensing into paragraphs what took several years โ and is ongoing. Iโd say I manage to keep level 80 per cent of the time. Itโs up to me. I can be glass half-empty: โThis isnโt the family of my dreams.โ Glass half-full: โThis is so much more than I expected.โ Or even: โOoh look, a glass with my name on it!โ
Muddling along
Six years later, this is where I am: I have absolutely no idea what I am to J. I know Iโm something. For my part, I feel like her adoptive mother. As for her relationship with her father, itโs their business. Iโm beginning to enjoy the way he treats her like a princess โ it gives them both pleasure. He knows heโs doing it and laughs about it. She knows perfectly well how to butter her own toast, but thatโs not the point. It may not be feminism to expect your father to carry your heavy bags, both literally and metaphorically, but itโs his way of being a good parent. He has her back โ totally.
Now, I also butter her toast, make her smoothies at the drop of a hat and leap at any opportunity to nurture. Iโm sure it makes her feel loved, and maybe even helps with the loss of her mother. I didnโt receive that kind of attention when my father died โ but now I have to give it to myself.
Of course, J needs time with her father. Iโve noticed that now Iโve dropped my controlling gaze, they donโt have to choose films I wouldnโt like to ensure they get time alone โ they cuddle up and watch Glee with relish and I get on with something else that I enjoy.
Often, I have beautiful dreams in which J and I are really close. Perhaps theyโre compensation dreams but actually, underneath the dramas, we get on pretty well. Iโve recently been helping her study. Itโs a small thing that makes me hugely happy.
Very occasionally, sheโll come to me for advice. Once, she was struggling with friendships at school and poured it all out. She took my advice and I feel thatโs a silent bond between us. Sheโs not demonstrative, so Iโve learned to stroke her arm instead of lunging for the bear hug, and to appreciate the occasional, small, but genuine, smile.
It helps that my husband often says he feels for me because I do the practical work of a mum but donโt get the emotional benefits of the blood relationship between a daughter and her mother. That recognition is enough. Nuts to Motherโs Day! Why should I be controlled by the global hype? Eating together on a daily basis, creating the environment for banter and sharing stories about our days is more important.
I realise that when his mother used the word โoutsiderโ, it was her way of being deeply empathetic towards me. I note and appreciate how, now that my own mum has died, she says she loves me all the time. Even his late wifeโs mother tells me she sees me as a daughter.
Having a cat, a dog, a house, a husband and a stepdaughter is more than I had hoped for at 56. Weโre a blended family, a real family and, when it works best, I know that I donโt โhaveโ any of them. Weโre travelling together, like free-floating reeds in a river.
*Name has been changed
Image: Getty