Dear Mom

When you married my dad, I told you that I would call you my mom from now on. You quickly told me not to do that, since the woman that gave birth to me was still alive. I didn't understand why that mattered.

Though I went to the woman's home every weekend and holiday, most of the time she wasn't there. Dad always had to drive me back and forth, though I never minded that part. I have always loved my dad and cherish every second we spend together.

But when I would arrive at that woman's house, usually the only person there would be my older half brother. The first time it happened, he was eight and I was four. It continued to happen regularly until I was eight, probably due to CPS breathing down her neck when I got third degree burns on my arm in an accident at her house and didn't receive treatment for it until almost two days later when dad came to pick me up. I didn't see her that entire weekend and my brother and I were too young to know what to do.

It was that weekend that I fully started to understand that if my dad didn't win the custody battle, I probably would have died before I even hit puberty at the hands of her neglect.

But when you came into my life, I started to learn what a mom was like for the first time. You always seemed to know what was on my mind and weren't afraid to punish me when I did something wrong. I still remember the time in third grade I made you cry and I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself for that, but soon you were smiling again as we walked to school together.

You never did like leaving me on my own when I was young, even if it meant taking me to work with you. Up until sometime between seventh and eighth grade, you didn't even like me being home alone for less than a hour. I was never quite sure if it was just because of you caring for me or because you knew how that woman was treating me.

One time while walking home, you were running late so you were still across the street from our normal meeting place. So I waited for the crosswalk sign and started walking toward you, but then suddenly you yelled out and bolted toward me. It was only then that I noticed that a car was trying to turn and almost hit me in the process. I thought you were mad at me and instantly apologized, but you simply held me close while yelling insults at the driver in a mixed of English and your home language, walking with me back to your bicycle that you dropped in your panic and making sure I was alright.

In that moment, I remembered thinking to myself, "Oh, this is what moms do."

In ninth grade, my therapist, who had already gotten to know my dad and you very well, thought it might be a good idea for her and my stepdad to join in for some family therapy meetings. The therapist was quick to take note that, unsurprisingly, you two sat on the couch furthest away from them, but that also, in every single family therapy session, I sat on the couch right in the middle, settling myself right next to you two and as far away from them as I could get.

There were multiple dramatic things that woman said to try and make her seem like she should be the one to be pitied, even though the therapy sessions were supposed to focus on me. After each session with that woman, I remember you and my therapist having a private talk together. I only learned later that it was her telling you that she couldn't believe how good you were at holding your tongue.

Mom, you may be wondering why I'm writing this. The thing is, yesterday was Father's Day and it reminded me how lucky I am to have you in my life. Some of my friends didn't luck out with a father as loving as mine, so the holiday is difficult for them. It reminds me that, if it weren't for you, I would probably hate Mother's Day just as much as they hate Father's Day.

So thank you, mom. For always being there for me. Thank you for all the love and care you've always given me, even if we aren't related by blood.

And thank you, so much, for teaching me what a mom is.