I was 21 when I met Paul in a coffee shop in downtown Lakeside. He was 32, handsome in a weathered way, with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that carried too much pain. His wife had died eight months earlier, leaving him with two young children.
“You have the most beautiful smile,” he said, sliding into my world with a confidence that made me blush. “I haven’t smiled in months, but yours reminded me what it felt like.”
At that age, I mistook intensity for romance. Three weeks later, I was meeting his kids: Mia, eight, with her gap-toothed grin, and John, six, a whirlwind of mischief.
“Are you going to be our new mommy?” Mia asked bluntly.
Paul’s response sealed my fate: “Maybe. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
I said yes, driven by guilt, love, and the allure of being needed. The wedding vows weren’t just to Paul—they were to Mia and John. I promised to love them as my own, thinking it noble.
But reality hit fast. Paul disappeared into video games, leaving all household and parental duties to me. The kids mocked me, tested me, and repeated his words back to me, learning early that I was the villain.
I tried, begged, and exhausted myself—but nothing changed. Six months later, I walked away, leaving a note:
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry for breaking my promises to Mia and John. Take care of yourselves.”
I thought I had failed. Yet the truth was clearer than ever: it wasn’t me—they had been taught not to love me.
