Like clockwork, every Sunday at 5 p.m., my stepson Josh came back from his mom’s place. And every single Sunday, he would step through our front door, kick off his shoes, and head straight to his room without a word.
It was like someone flipped a switch on Josh’s personality with us, transforming him from our cheerful, chatty ten-year-old son into a brooding stranger.
And what was worse? He never talked about what happened at his mom’s place. I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t want to push too hard. As much as Josh had accepted me as his stepmother, I still didn’t know how much of a role I truly had in his life.
“Do you think he’s okay, Patrick?” I asked my husband one evening as we were making dinner.
Josh had just been dropped off, and he was in an exceptionally irritable mood, refusing to talk to either of us.
“Honestly, I think he’s fine,” Patrick said, slicing potatoes. “Linda does like to push him about school. I’m sure she gives him a hard time.”
“Yeah, but I push him about school too, and he jokes his way through it,” I argued. “With her, it feels different. Like she’s draining the life out of him. But again, I know—bio mom has the trump card over stepmom.”
Patrick gave me a long look. “Olivia, if you want to talk to him, just do it. You don’t need permission.”
I nodded, but deep down, I just wanted reassurance. I wanted Patrick to make sure Josh was okay. Because it hadn’t always been like this.
When Josh first came to live with us—since we were closer to the school he wanted to attend—he was like a bright light. He told stories about his day, asked endless questions, and even spent afternoons with me baking in the kitchen.
But now? That boy was gone. In his place was a child weighed down by something invisible. We tried everything—favorite meals, games, movie nights—but nothing worked.
That night, Patrick spoke to him gently by the fire.
“It was fine, Dad,” Josh said. “Mom was her usual self, I guess.”
“But then why are you so sad?” Patrick pressed.
Josh’s voice cracked. “It’s draining being there, Dad. But I know it’s important to spend weekends with her.”
Patrick nodded. “It is important. But we can change the schedule if it’s too much.”
Josh’s face darkened, and he stormed off. But before going to his room, he stopped in the kitchen and wrapped his arms around me. “Good night, Liv.”
That hug stayed with me. It felt heavy, like he was holding something he couldn’t say.
The following Sunday, I finally found out what.
Patrick had gone grocery shopping, and I sat on the couch with a cup of tea. At exactly 5 p.m., I heard the familiar rumble of Linda’s beat-up sedan. Our new security system automatically switched the TV from my cooking show to the porch camera.
There they were—Linda and Josh.
“Here’s your cookies,” Linda said, handing him a container. “And you know what you have to do…”
Josh’s face fell.
“Mom, I don’t want to,” he whispered.
My stomach twisted.
“You have to,” Linda insisted.
Josh’s voice broke. “I hate lying to Dad! If he knew you were making me steal from him, he’d be furious. And Liv knows things are missing—her jewelry, her lotions, even the sanitary pads—Mom, I can’t keep doing this!”
I froze. My hands trembled.
Linda leaned closer. “So what? They can afford it. Next time, I need one of Olivia’s necklaces. If I pawn it, I can pay my debt. And check your dad’s sock drawer. He always keeps emergency cash. Well, this is an emergency.”
I gasped aloud. My sweet boy had been carrying this alone. No wonder he was so broken every Sunday—he was being blackmailed by his own mother.
Fueled by anger and heartbreak, I marched to the door and opened it.
“Linda,” I said coldly.
Her head jerked up, and Josh nearly jumped into my arms.
“I heard everything.”
Josh clung to me, breathing hard. Linda’s eyes narrowed.
“Look, Olivia, it’s not what—”
“Don’t lie to me,” I cut her off. “You’re teaching your son to steal from his family. That ends today.”
At the threat of Patrick finding out, she cracked quickly. She admitted she was drowning in debt, behind on rent, and desperate.
“I’ll give you the money to get back on your feet,” I said firmly. “But Josh stays here until you prove you can handle things. And you will never put him in this position again. Do you understand?”
Her lips tightened. “He’s my son.”
“Yes,” I said. “Your son who you’re forcing to betray his father and me. If you ever involve him again, I’ll press charges.”
Her face paled. She nodded stiffly and walked away.
The moment the door closed, Josh burst into sobs.
“Thank you,” he cried. “I didn’t want to do it. I hated it. I’m so sorry!”
I knelt, holding him close. “Sweet boy, this isn’t your fault. None of it. We’ll fix this. I’ll help your mom, but you never have to steal again. I promise.”
And as I rocked him in my arms, I realized something: motherhood isn’t just about blood. It’s about being the safe place a child runs to when their world feels impossible.
