Poems From The Kitchen Table

By Valentina DuPont

This poem is born from one of the most complex, misunderstood, and transformative roles I’ve ever stepped into. It isn’t a fairy tale, and it’s far from the villain story we’re told. This is my version, my truth, as a stepmother.

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What Is a Stepmother?

Not quite a friend
they already had friends.
Not quite an aunt
there were plenty of those.
And never a mother
because that role was sealed
long before I arrived.

So what is a stepmother
but a woman who stands beside the father,
offering love in quiet doses,
soft enough not to stir the room,
strong enough to stay?

They say I was the problem,
too young,
too foreign,
too much.
But no one asked
how dangerous it is
to be 21
and blamed for a story
you didn’t write.

I didn’t break the home.
I only entered the chapter
they refused to read.

I taught them to love vegetables,
packed their lunches with laughter,
watched their games like prayers.
I made turkey burgers and Sunday omelettes,
stitched their names into the rhythm of my days.

But still
too often, I was
the outsider with open arms,
the one who stayed,
but never belonged.

This is my truth:
To love children you did not birth,
and still feel the ache
of being uninvited
to their hearts.

And still,
I love them.
And still,
I stay.