Nathan was just six when I met him. He peeked out from behind his father’s leg on our third date—wide-eyed, quiet, and cautious. Richard had told me he had a son, but nothing prepared me for how deeply that little boy would impact my heart. There was something in his gaze that spoke of loss beyond his years.
Richard gently crouched beside him and said, “This is Victoria. The woman I told you about.”
I knelt, smiled, and said, “Hi, Nathan. Your dad told me you love dinosaurs, especially T-Rex. I brought you something.” I handed him a small gift bag with a geology book inside—not a toy, because I wanted him to feel seen and respected. He took it silently, but Richard later shared that he kept that book under his pillow for weeks.
That’s how it began. I didn’t try to rush a connection. I simply showed up, day after day. When Richard proposed six months later, I asked Nathan too. We were baking cookies when I said, “Would it be okay if I marry your dad and live with you?”
He licked batter from the spoon and asked, “Will you still bake cookies with me if you’re my stepmom?”
“Every Saturday,” I promised. And I kept that promise—even through his teenage years when he claimed cookies were “for kids.”
Nathan’s mother had been gone for two years by then. No contact, no birthday cards. I never tried to take her place—I simply carved out a space of my own.
Continue reading on next page…