Stepmom

The Mother Who Never Was

This is not a tale of love, but of survival. A stepmother who tore down instead of building up — and the daughter who chose to rise anyway.

I wrote it as a way of reckoning with the woman who shaped my silence — and the freedom I claimed beyond her shadow.

She was my personal jailor.
My tormentor.
A woman who sought to replace my mother,
a queen of ice crowned with sharp edges and black glass.

Her veins ran not with blood,
but with alcohol and venom.
Her eyes — dull, icy —
shot poisoned arrows when angered.

Her arms never reached to comfort.
They stood stiff with contempt,
her lips spilling not love,
but words that cut,
building a cage of steel
laced with hate.

She taught me to be quiet.
She preached insecurity, inferiority,
unworthiness.
And I, the perfect student,
learned every lesson.

Yet her own daughter she indulged —
with love, embraces, attention.
While my father,
a bystander in his dreamy dollhouse,
let his daughter shrink
into a shadow of herself
so long as the illusion held.

The eyes of a child see much,
but the heart sees more.
Mine longed for crumbs of affection,
yet learned to survive on nothing.
I became invisible.
I dared not impose.

How much can one endure before they snap?
In my case, a lifetime.
The cage lived in me,
burning holes into my cells,
spitting venom on arms that sought to love me,
on souls that sought my love.

But motherhood came like a flood.
It washed the venom away,
drowned the demons before they could claim more.

And I finally saw it—
Motherhood is not a garment that fits all women.
On some, it hangs too loosely.
On others, it chokes.
And some—
poison in their hearts—
cannot wear it at all.

To my jailor, my tormentor,
I wish neither good nor ill.
I only wish to be free
of your memory.

Thank you for reading…✨

If this little poem brought you a tiny moment of stillness or reflection, I’m glad.
I believe silence is a kind of grace, and that stories and poems, too, can offer us rest.

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With ink and light and, maybe an essence of vanilla,

Lia