I deleted my stepson’s Mother’s Day video because I thought he was honoring the mom who left him, not me—the one who raised him for seven years. I was angry and jealous. He ran to his room in tears, and my husband, Harrison, said nothing.
The next day, I found a hidden metal case in Harrison’s car. Inside were videos of me and Toby over the years—teaching him, caring for him, loving him—plus letters from his biological mom, Elena. She had been terminally ill and left to spare him the pain. In her letters, she thanked me for raising her son and asked Harrison not to tell me, so I’d never feel like I was competing with her memory.
There was also a USB labeled “For Mother’s Day.” The real video Toby made wasn’t about choosing her over me. It was about losing his first mom and finding his “forever mom”—me. I had deleted a tribute to myself because I let insecurity blind me.
I apologized to Toby, and we rebuilt the project together. On Mother’s Day, I felt no jealousy—only gratitude. I learned love isn’t divided by sharing it. By trying to erase his past, I almost damaged our future. I was never second best—I was the answer to a dying mother’s prayer.