When my stepson was about three, he looked at me with those wide, curious eyes kids have and said, “I love you.”
I told him I loved him too.

But then he added, with all the innocence in the world,
“No… I mean I love you like you’re mine.”

He didn’t know what “step-parent” meant. He didn’t understand labels or boundaries. He just knew how he felt. And in that moment, something warm opened in me—something I didn’t have a name for yet. I had eased into his life carefully, afraid of overstepping. But children don’t overthink the way adults do. They see effort. They see consistency. They see who shows up.

And he chose me.

Our bond grew not through blood, but through everyday moments: tying shoes, reading bedtime stories, packing school lunches he pretended to hate but always finished. I cheered at soccer games in the rain, listened to endless video-game explanations, and learned his emotions like a second language. What he didn’t realize was how much he was shaping me too—teaching me patience, softness, and a kind of purpose I didn’t expect.

There were hard moments. At seven, he asked if loving me meant he was “forgetting” his mom. I told him love doesn’t replace—it expands. There’s room for all of us.

Now he’s eleven, acting tough but still melting into hugs at night. And every so often, he says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

He has no idea that he let me in long before he understood what love really meant—and that I carry that gift with me every single day.