Off The Record
After My Husband’s Death, My Stepson Grew Distant—Then I Found A Letter That Changed Everything
Three days prior to Jamie’s eighteenth birthday, I discovered the letter concealed under his father’s supervision. His birth mother sealed it and waited for 17 years to tell him something I was never able do. I had to choose between telling him the truth, which could end our relationship, and letting him believe a lie that would keep us together.
The fragrance of aged leather and the woody cologne my late husband used still permeated his study. As I got closer to the desk, dust particles danced away from me, hanging in the afternoon light.
In three days, my stepson Jaime would be eighteen. Michael had promised him an heirloom watch, the same one that Michael wore on our wedding day and that his grandfather wore during the war.
The final thing I could do right for my husband, the last thing I could promise him, was to give that watch to Jaime.
The final thing I could do for my spouse was to give that watch to Jaime.
Since the burial, Jamie had been drifting away from me. Silently, like sand between fingers, without slamming doors or yelling words.
He was constantly at the gym, Noah’s garage, or a friend’s house lately. Conversations over our dinners had given way to transactions: “Thanks for dinner.” “Pass the salt.” “I’ll be out tonight.”
Late at night, when the home was too large and too quiet, I wondered if it might be more than the simple grief he was experiencing.
Since the burial, Jamie had been drifting away from me.
I opened the drawers on my desk. Papers, pens, and a stack of old business cards that Michael never threw away were all within.
In the bottom drawer, I discovered the watch box. I noticed the mail underneath when I took it up.
The margins were a little yellowed. On the front, Michael had written:
To open on Jamie’s eighteenth birthday. from Mom.
However, since I didn’t write this, it had to be from Jamie’s biological mother. The woman who passed away at the age of eight months.
Throughout our years together, Michael never once mentioned this letter to me. Why wouldn’t he tell me this?
They sealed the envelope. Almost instinctively, as if my body were making judgments my head wasn’t prepared for, my finger slid toward the flap.
Throughout our years together, Michael never once mentioned this letter to me.
What if everything was reversed by this letter? What if Jamie came to the realization that I was never good enough, that I would never be able to be what she was?
I paused and gazed at the letter while placing it on the desk.
I believed that woman had been gone for seventeen years. And I’ve spent sixteen of them here. I’ve taught him how to drive, prepared lunches, and stayed up through stomach flus.
Nevertheless.
I’ve taught him how to drive, prepared lunches, and stayed up through stomach flus.
I still had the impression that I was under her shadow. I was beginning to question whether Jamie had ever considered me to be his mother at all, given the way he had been acting lately—aloof, icy, and somewhere else.
Perhaps Jamie saw no reason to continue the act now that Michael was no longer there.
After putting the watch and the letter in my cardigan pocket, I quietly closed the door behind me and walked out of the study.
I began to question whether he had ever considered me to be his mother.
I prepared Jamie’s favorite supper that night: homemade garlic bread and chicken parmesan with Caesar salad and extra croutons.
I believe I was merely attempting to prove something, even though I persuaded myself I was generating warmth.
Jaime didn’t glance at me when he came downstairs and sat at the table with his earbuds in.
“You’ve been out a lot lately,” I replied.
He gave a shrug. “I needed air.”
Jaime didn’t glance at me when he came downstairs and sat at the table with his earbuds in.
“I get that. I just worry, you know?”
He flinched as soon as I said those words, as if I had touched something raw with my hand.
He said, “You don’t have to,” and I didn’t recognize the edge in his voice. “I’m not your kid.”
Those remarks were crisp, clean, and stuck between my ribs like a knife. The ensuing quiet seemed dense enough to engulf oneself.
“I’m not your kid.”
Whispering, “I’ve always considered you my son,”
He refused to look at me and said, “Yeah, well.” “It’s different now that Dad’s gone, isn’t it?”
I started to reply, but my mouth remained closed. He was correct; everything had changed, and I was clueless about how to make things right.
He continued, “But hey,” in a tone that was icy and bordering on cruel, “I’m going to college soon, so neither of us will have to pretend anymore.”
“It’s different now that Dad’s gone, isn’t it?”
Something broke like a piece of beautiful crystal inside me.
I assumed that he didn’t consider me to be his mother. Perhaps he didn’t.
worse, though. Perhaps I never convinced him that I wanted to be his mother.
“I’ll miss you,” I said.
He chuckled. “Sure.”
Then he sprang up, snatched his keys off the counter, and scraped his plate into the sink with more force than was necessary.
Perhaps I never convinced him that I wanted to be his mother.
“I’m going to Noah’s. Study group.”
“Jamie, wait—”
“I’ll be back before midnight, Laura.”
Not your mother. Laura.
Before I could say anything more, the front door clicked shut. Sitting by myself at the table, I gazed at the vacant chair across from me, which had once belonged to Michael but was now occupied by no one.
Before I could say anything more, the front door clicked shut.
The letter crushed like a stone on my side in my pocket.
I’m not your child. Like a ringing bell, the words kept repeating in my mind.
The house was silent once more the night before Jamie’s birthday. Now, everything was constantly silent.
My hands were clumsy and stiff as I sat in the living room wrapping the watch. The tape adhered to my fingertips, and the paper continued to crinkle incorrectly. I had to make two starts.
I hadn’t mentioned the letter to Jamie.
I knew I should have, but each time I considered it, I heard him say, “I’m not your kid.”
When he was seven, I spent the entire night with him and he developed strep throat. I used cool towels to clean his forehead and read him stories until my voice became raspy.
When his volcanic science experiment refused to explode, I recalled staying up until two in the morning to reconstruct it. He had embraced me so tightly that I was out of breath when it eventually worked.
When he was seven, I spent the entire night with him and he developed strep throat.
I had massaged his hair and reassured him that everything would be alright when he was fifteen and his first true girlfriend broke up with him via text.
Whether he realized it or not, I had been choosing him every day for fifteen years, and I was still just Laura.
The front door opened, and then I heard Jaime walking down the hall. His voice was calm, as if he had never been around me before.
Whether he realized it or not, I had been choosing him every day for fifteen years, and I was still just Laura.
“Yeah, it’s just me and Laura celebrating tomorrow,” he replied. “Like a family thing, except she’s not my actual mom.”
I gasped. I didn’t yell. Rather, I listened to his footsteps as he ascended to his room while I sat in the living room’s wingback chair with my back to the entryway.
I waited until his upstairs door clicked shut. At last, I opened my mouth to breathe, and the breath burst into a sob that I had to smother with my palm.
“She’s not my actual mom.”
Jamie’s 18th birthday was the next morning, so I got up early and made cinnamon rolls from scratch—the sort that take three hours because the dough needs to rise twice. I prepared bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese, and fresh coffee.
I wanted to make one more attempt to be his mother, even if he didn’t regard me as such.
At eight, Jamie came downstairs with his hair standing up in the back and still drowsy. He paused when he noticed the breakfast spread.
I wanted to make one more attempt to be his mother, even if he didn’t regard me as such.
The letter rested against the fruit bowl on the counter.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” he murmured under his breath.
I grinned, but my face felt brittle. “Yes, I did.”
I gave the box to him, wrapped. I heard his breath catch as he cautiously opened it and saw the watch box.
When he said, “This was Dad’s?” his voice broke.
The letter rested against the fruit bowl on the counter.
“And his father’s. He wanted you to have it when you turned 18.”
Jamie’s eyes widened. He got up and gave me a hug. Since the funeral, he hadn’t done that. I embraced him and briefly allowed myself to hope.
I got the letter when he let me go. Holding it out to him, my fingers trembled.
I said, “There’s something else,”
He got up and gave me a hug. Since the funeral, he hadn’t done that.
“I found this when I was looking for the watch. It’s from your birth mother. Your dad kept it all these years. I think you should have it.”
Jamie went slowly. He opened the table and took a seat.
I was unable to observe. I went to the living room and sat on the couch, clasping my hands together as if I were awaiting a decision.
Before I heard Jamie’s footsteps behind me, it seemed like an eternity.
I was unable to observe.
He emerged at the doorway with the letter in both hands, his eyes wet and crimson.
His words, “You should hear this,” After clearing his throat, he began to read. “Jamie, if you’re reading this, it means you’re no longer my tiny baby, but a young man with a whole life ahead of you. I won’t get to see it, and that breaks my heart in ways I don’t have words for.”
He stopped and took a deep breath.
“I pray that someone will be there to love you like I would have. To show up for you. To choose you every single day.”
“You should hear this.”
One more pause. This time, longer.
“And if someone has stepped into that role, I hope you know it’s okay to love her back. It’s even okay to call her ‘Mom.’ Loving her doesn’t take anything away from me. It means I got my greatest wish because someone was there for you when I couldn’t be.”
Jamie’s voice cracked utterly. Without thinking, I got up and approached him. He fell into my arms the way he used to when he was little when I opened them.
It implies I’ve fulfilled my greatest dream.
He mumbled, “Thank you,” on my shoulder. “You’ve always been there for me. Even now. I thought you might leave after Dad… but you’re still here.”
I murmured, “I never planned to love you halfway, Jamie,” with my voice hardly coherent. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He stepped back just enough to give me a glance. He had a moist face. So was mine.
“Thank you, Mom.”
Mom. Mom, not Laura.
“Thank you, Mom.”
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