I never thought a text could be that powerful until my stepchildren’s mother texted me the day before their birthday celebration. You’re not invited. Their true parent isn’t you.” However, she was unaware of my deep love for those children and the amount of myself I had already given them.

“Ella! Max! Move it, folks! Bus departs in 15 minutes!” I called from the kitchen preparing two similar lunchboxes. Ella’s superhero sticker and Max’s little skateboard keychain were the only differences.

Ten-year-old twins rushed down stairs with thunderous footsteps. They had mismatched shoes and untucked shirts. Typical morning commotion.

Got your teeth brushed? Before asking, I knew the answer.

“We were finishing our dioramas,” Ella murmured.

“Yeah,” Max said. “Our animal habitats. The adhesive dried!”

“Teeth. Now. Go. The signed permission forms are on my desk!

I grinned as they ran. My life was busy, boisterous, full of minor wins and mayhem. Oh, I liked it.

I met Thomas while the twins were little. Vanessa, their mother, departed soon after birth to travel. She sometimes helped, but Thomas and I did everything.

Bedtime tales. Soccer practice. Visits to the dentist. School projects. I witnessed everything.

I discovered who liked food, disliked duties, was terrified of thunder, and required light to sleep. Ella sought stitches from me. Max snuggled into my lap after a nightmare to breakdown.

Vanessa and I barely got along. She used me as set dressing in her show, even though she seldom attended. Sometimes the youngsters called me mom without my encouragement. They never got rectified.

Five years later, Thomas and I married. The ten-year-old twins were excited for their birthday. We organized a backyard party with relatives, classmates, food, a magician, and a soccer stadium cake.

Then Vanessa called.

I was chopping bell peppers when Thomas called. I knew it was her by his rigid stance when he replied.

“She wants to change the party plans,” he said later. “Said she’s throwing one at home.”

“The kids planned this one. They countdown for weeks.”

“I know,” he responded with frustration. “I informed her. She didn’t care.”

My phone buzzed. Vanessa.

The banner stated, “This is a family event. You’re not invited.”

Blinked at the screen. A second message followed.

You have no kids. Make your own celebration if it matters.”

Air left my lungs. I quietly handed Thomas the phone. His jaw tightened.

“She crossed the line,” he remarked.

“She doesn’t know,” I said.

“No. We never told her.”

A few years before, Thomas and I began trying for a child. I discovered my illness made pregnancy practically difficult after several tests and professional consultations. We mourned softly. I did not tell many.

Some nights I dreamed of holding a baby. Thomas drew me close and reminded me we had a family while I cried.

Still, Vanessa’s comments sting.

You have no kids.”

Days passed. Not responding to messages. I assisted with schoolwork. Packed lunches. Cleats cleaned. I tried to forget.

In the afternoon, I examined the twins’ school tuition statement. It addressed me. Not to Thomas. To Vanessa, no.

Me.

Thomas lost a key customer last year and feared we couldn’t maintain the twins in private school. Without hesitation, I took over their tuition. Quietly. Children never knew. Vanessa didn’t know.

I examined the bill.

You have no kids.”

The following morning, I contacted school.

My name is Rachel, stepmother to Ella and Max. I want to alter their billing contact.”

“Of course,” the secretary answered.

“Send all future tuition invoices to Vanessa, their biological mother.”

I provided her the school forms’ email and postal address. It would take effect immediately, she said.

Three days later, Vanessa phoned.

“What the hell? The school sent me an invoice via email! Why put my name on it?!”

“I figured it made sense,” I remarked quietly, folding clothes. “You said I’m not family. Not having kids. So I shouldn’t pay their tuition.”

A lengthy pause.

“You paid?” she questioned.

For almost a year.”

Another pause. Perhaps she calculated the cost.

“I didn’t know,” she replied. She said softly. I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”

I said, “You’re welcome to host the party.” “I won’t be excluded from their lives. I’m not simply assistance.”

Another pause.

“I’d like you to come,” she said. To party. The kids want you. I erred.”

No thanks from her. She didn’t need to.

We co-hosted the celebration. Ella and Max shone all day.

Ella smiled at me after extinguishing her candles. I was embraced by Max after unwrapping gifts.

I’m not best friends with Vanessa. We may never be. She never attempted to exclude me again.

She knows now.

They may not have been my children.

I show up. Every day.

Sometimes the ones who show up matter more.

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