When I moved in with my fiancé Rafiq and his ten-year-old son Idris, things were tense. Idris kept calling me by his mom’s name, despite gentle corrections. Then I found a chilling drawing in his backpack—stick figures of us with a woman’s face crossed out and the words “GO AWAY MOMMY.” It looked like me, and I wasn’t sure if it was anger or confusion.
Rafiq assured me Idris just needed time, but the distance between us grew. He refused my cooking, compared everything to “how Mommy did it,” and kept me at arm’s length. Then came a second drawing—same figures, but now with a storm cloud and the words “NOT SAFE.”
Rafiq quietly said, “That’s not you.” And I realized—Idris wasn’t seeing me. He was reliving trauma from his past with Zahira, his mom, who had struggled with custody issues and instability. I gently suggested therapy. Rafiq was hesitant, but eventually agreed.
Idris started art therapy. Slowly, his drawings changed—less anger, more animals, even a spaghetti dinner labeled “NOT BAD.” He showed me hidden drawings too: one of him curled in a closet, a shadow looming. I asked, “Is that how you used to feel?” He nodded.
He began calling me “Miss Hana,” not as a dig—but with respect. Then Zahira reached out, sober and wanting a second chance. The first supervised visit was cautious but calm. Idris came back smiling. The visits continued, and the anger faded.
Then came a new drawing: three figures—“ME, MOMMY, MISS HANA.” No Xs. Just names.
At his school recital, he asked us both to come. It was awkward, but afterward, Zahira looked at me and mouthed, “Thank you.” No drama, just a quiet understanding between two women who loved the same boy.
Eventually, Rafiq and I married in a small garden ceremony. Idris, now proudly our ring bearer, told everyone he had two moms. Zahira joked, “One’s enough, kid,” but smiled when she said it.
Step-parenting rarely has big moments. It’s slow trust, quiet drawings, and showing up over and over again. And sometimes, that’s how love grows—one crayon line at a time.
