“Wait for what?”
He didn’t answer.
That should have told me everything.
But I still didn’t understand.
So let me go back.
I’m fifty-eight now.
I married David twelve years ago.
At the time, I honestly thought love had passed me by.
Then David came along and called me his second chance.
At our small backyard wedding, he whispered it into my hair, and I believed him completely.
Chloe was seventeen.
Her mother had passed away several years earlier.
And from the beginning, I understood something important:
I was not there to replace her mother.
I never wanted that role.
I simply wanted a place of my own in Chloe’s life.
A chair at the table.
Nothing more.
But being a stepmother was never going to be simple.
At first, though, Chloe and I actually got along.
I cooked meals she liked.
Baked ziti.
That ridiculous boxed macaroni and cheese she loved.
I asked about school and friends without interrogating her.
I gave her room when she wanted it.
And when she wanted company, I was there.
Sometimes she laughed at my terrible jokes.
Once she even asked me how I made pie crust so flaky.
For a while, I thought we might be okay.
Then something changed.
Almost overnight, Chloe became distant.
At dinner, she barely spoke to me.
She avoided being alone in the same room.
One night, while David and I were doing dishes, I asked,
“Is Chloe all right? She barely looked at me tonight.”
David shrugged.
“She’s seventeen. School, boys, grief. Don’t take everything personally.”
“Did something happen?”
“I’ll talk to her.”
That became the pattern.
I noticed something.
