When I married my husband five years ago, his daughter came to live with us. She was only eight—shy but sweet—and I promised myself I’d never try to replace her mother. Instead, I just wanted to be someone she could rely on, a steady presence who made her feel safe.

She was the daughter I’d always dreamed of.

I grew up in foster care and spent my childhood longing for a real family. By the time I met my husband, I already knew I couldn’t have children of my own. So when his daughter came into my life, it felt like a gift—a second chance at something I thought I’d never have.

Over time, I truly believed we were bonding. She’d draw little pictures and leave them on my desk. We’d bake cookies together and laugh at how lopsided they turned out. On movie nights, she’d fall asleep leaning against me. I used to think, Maybe we’re becoming a family after all.

A move and a heartbreak

Three years into our marriage, my husband’s ex-wife got a job in another city—and took their daughter with her. It felt like someone had taken a piece of my heart with her. I never meant to replace her mother, but I still hoped to stay close, to hold on to that little piece of family we’d built.

At first, my stepdaughter didn’t seem to mind. I was a stay-at-home mom with more time for her, and our home had more space. But as she got older, something changed.

She became distant, guarded. Her phone never left her hand, and when I walked by, she’d quickly flip it over or shove it in her pocket. She often sulked when she was with us. I told myself, Teenagers need privacy. But deep down, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that something was wrong.

The night it all came crashing down

One evening, she left her phone charging in the living room. As I walked past, the screen lit up. I shouldn’t have looked—but I did.

What I saw made my chest tighten.

A group chat. Filled with cruel messages about me.

“She’s so fake.”
“I can’t stand how she tries to be my mom.”
“Counting the days until I don’t have to live with her.”

I scrolled further, each line cutting deeper than the last—screenshots of my texts, captioned with mocking emojis. Jokes about my cooking. Even a nickname that made me feel like a stranger in my own home.

The next morning, I asked her to sit down. My voice trembled, but I stayed calm.

“I saw some of the things you wrote,” I began quietly. “I don’t want to punish you—I just want to understand why.”

Her face went pale. For a moment, I saw panic. Then, anger.

“You keep taking me away from my mum!” she shouted. “You’re not my real mother, and you keep trying to be!”

I’m ashamed of how I reacted.

Something in me snapped.

“I’m not trying to replace your mother,” I shot back, my voice rising. “But I’ve been here for five years. I’ve cooked for you, helped you with school, stayed up when you were sick—and this is how you treat me?”

Her eyes filled with tears, but instead of softening, I hardened.

“You know what?” I added, my voice breaking. “If you hate me so much, stop pretending around me. But don’t expect me to keep trying if all you want to do is mock me behind my back.”

She stormed off to her room, slamming the door. I sat there shaking—not just from anger, but from guilt. I had wanted to understand her, to build a bridge. Instead, I’d burned it.

Now, I don’t know how to fix this.

The house feels colder these days. She avoids me. I avoid her. Meals are quiet, strained. Every time I pass her room, I want to knock—but pride holds me back.

I keep telling myself I was right to be hurt. But deep down, I know she was right too. I did try to be her mother—because I loved her.

Now she’s not talking to me. My husband barely speaks to me either. He says she might not come back after this trip. And I can’t escape the feeling that I’m the one to blame.

I just don’t know how to make this okay.

Source: brightside.m