When I was 21, I met Paul in a coffee shop in downtown Lakeside. He was 32 years old, had salt-and-pepper hair, and his eyes were too melancholy. He was good-looking in a rough way. His wife had died in a vehicle accident eight months before, leaving him with two young children.
He continued, He said, “You have the most beautiful smile,” and he walked into my world with such much confidence that I became red. “I haven’t smiled in months, but yours brought back memories of what it was like.”
I thought love was strong at that age. I thought his broken-man act was love, and his anguish wrapped around me like a shroud. I answered yes when he asked me to dinner the next day. Three weeks later, I met his kids in his living room. There were Mia, who was eight and had black hair and a smile with a gap in it, and John, who was six and couldn’t sit still.
“Are you going to be our new mom?” Mia asked right away.
Paul took my hand and murmured, “Maybe.” That would be fantastic, don’t you think?
That should have been a sign. Instead, I let myself become lost in roses at work, candlelight meals, and his continuous reminders that “You saved us, Carol.” You brought the brightness back. He asked her to marry him four months later. “You aren’t just marrying me,” he remarked. That cemented my fate. You are choosing to be Mia and John’s mom. They need you.
The remorse hit right away. How could I leave kids who had already lost so much? I said yes. The preacher asked me if I would love Paul’s kids like they were my own at the wedding. “I do,” I said, and the people in the chapel remarked about how unselfish I was. It felt like I had been picked.
The story ended before the honeymoon light went out.
“Carol, help John with his homework,” Paul said from the couch. He was already getting ready to play his video game. I worked all day, went food shopping, and made dinner, but he was too exhausted. “You’re not my real mother!” John yelled. Paul didn’t say anything to him. He didn’t even look up.
That was how I lived. After working all day, I returned home and did the dishes, cleaned, cooked, did laundry, helped with homework, and got ready for bed. While playing his games, Paul forgot what time it was. He always told me to go when I sought for aid. “I work hard all day to take care of this family.” You only have a little job.
He made things worse by putting me down. He would smile and say, “Don’t worry, she’s just being a meanie,” if I urged the kids to clean up. Would you rather watch a movie? Mia and John quickly realized that Dad was the bad guy and I was the nice guy. They made fun of me in front of everyone. Mia once told me, “Make me a sandwich.” When I asked for “the magic word,” she yelled, “Now!” Paul laughed.
It grew worse the more I tried. I was the maid and the nanny, but never the mother. The last straw was when Mia and John threw paper airplanes instead of doing their homework. When I told them to stop, Mia yelled, “You’re not the boss!” John said, “You’re just Dad’s stupid wife.” Paul exclaimed from the other room, “Do I have to do everything around here?” even though he hadn’t done anything.
I held a basket of garments in my arms and thought, “I’m all alone.” Paul warned these students not to listen to me, therefore they never did. I was there to help, not to be liked.
I departed six months later. I packed my things and wrote a note that stated, “I can’t do this anymore,” one morning while Paul was sleeping and the kids were at school. I’m sorry I didn’t do what I said I would do for Mia and John. “Take care of yourselves.” Leaving felt like betrayal, but it also felt like a breath of fresh air.
The divorce didn’t take long to happen. We didn’t have any kids, so there was nothing to argue about. Paul said with a sneer, “You’re making a big mistake.” “Those kids loved you, and now you’re leaving.” I felt bad, but I knew the truth: they didn’t love me. They had learned to loathe me.
It took a long time—sixteen years. Mark was a high school teacher, and his eyes were always kind. I got married to him. We had two boys, Tommy and Sam, and we made sure they were safe at home. Mark did duties around the house without being asked, praised me as a mother, and took care of discipline as a husband. At this point, I understood what it meant to care about and respect someone.
I still thought about Mia and John every now and then. Did they not like me? Did they even know me? I convinced myself that they would be better off without me. Then, one morning, I stopped everything to check my email. A note from Mia.
“Hi Carol, Because of how my dad, John, and I treated you, I know you probably don’t want to hear from us. But after years of treatment, I discovered how mean I was when I was a kid. You were the only thing that made our house seem like home. You read to us, helped us with our homework, and went to activities at school. We didn’t deserve you, yet you were the mother we needed. Dad instructed us to hate you because it was easier for him than being a good dad. He got married again after you left, but no one stayed with him. He finally quit up for good. We ended ourselves staying with John in foster care. I’d like you to be my mom when I get married in two months. John would also like to see you. We will understand if you say no. I love you, Mia.
When I was done reading, I cried. Paul had finally gone. I felt I had let them down all those years, but it was him the whole time.
I emailed Mark. “What should I do now?” I said it in a low voice.
“That’s up to you,” he said in a low voice. But the kids didn’t leave. Their father poisoned them, and now they are trying to fix things. That takes bravery.
Three days later, I wrote back and said, “Dear Mia, I would love to come to your wedding.” Thank you for getting in touch. I am proud of who you are now. “Love, Carol.”
There were four hours until the wedding at Gray Hill. The whole time I was driving, my heart was racing. The first time I saw John was at church. He was tall and had huge shoulders, but he smiled like the little child I used to read to. He said, “Carol!” and hugged me so tightly that I couldn’t breathe. “When Mia sees you, she’s going to cry.”
Yes, she did. As she walked down the aisle, she saw me in the third row and flashed the largest smile I had ever seen. Then she ran straight into my arms. “You came,” she said softly, her face wet with tears.
We put together 16 years’ worth of missing pieces at the reception. They told me about therapy, foster care, and when they figured out that their dad was the problem. John said, “Things got worse after you left.” “He left because he couldn’t handle us.” We were mad at you, but in the end we saw the truth. You were the only grown-up who cared.
I said firmly, “You were kids.” “You weren’t mean. You were in pain.
“Not all the grown-ups let us down,” Mia said in a whisper. “You tried to help us, even when we told you to go away.”
Now we can talk to each other. Mia sends pictures from her honeymoon and news about her job as a nurse. When John feels stressed out about college, he calls me. They’ve met Tommy and Sam, who love having older brothers and sisters.
I sometimes wonder what Paul might wish to change. But most of the time, I’m thankful. I thought I’d never see those kids again, but here we are, not blood relatives but still together because of the love that wouldn’t die.
You never know what kind of family you’ll end up with. And sometimes, things that are broken don’t just get better; they get stronger.
