When I married my husband, his daughter was six.
From the beginning, I told her she never had to call me Mom. I told her she could call me whatever felt comfortable, and she decided to call me Emily.
So for years, I was simply Emily.
I went to her school plays, helped her with homework, took her to soccer practice, stayed up with her when she was sick, and learned exactly how she liked her pancakes. I never tried to force a relationship or make her give me a title she wasn’t ready to give me.
Then one February night, she got sick enough that we took her to the hospital.
It wasn’t anything life-threatening, but the doctors wanted to keep her overnight for observation. My husband stayed with her until almost midnight before telling me I should go home and get some sleep because I had work the next morning.