But my stepdaughter made it painfully clear she’d never let me.
I packed her lunches with little notes folded inside the napkins. I stayed up past midnight sewing a witch costume the night before Halloween because she’d « forgotten » to mention the school parade until then.
I knew he came with one condition.
Emily would unwrap her sandwich at school and toss the note in the trash without reading it. I knew because her friend’s mom told me, gently, over coffee.
« I’m only nice to you because Dad makes me, » my stepdaughter told me one afternoon, stirring her cereal as if it had personally offended her.
I tried to smile.
« That’s okay, Em. You don’t have to be nice. You just have to be honest. »
« I’m only nice to you because Dad makes me. »
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