Until Eleanor arrived. I met her on a torrential Tuesday afternoon at a local bakery. I was eyeing a pink frosted pastry when my dad pulled the door open for a woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun, a paper bag in her hand, and a smile so fragile it seemed to be begging for permission to exist. “Thank you,” she breathed. My dad completely lost his composure. That caught my attention. Arthur Sterling could stare down furious clients, ruthless lawyers, and debt collectors without blinking. But this woman made him stammer over a tray of croissants. Her name was Eleanor. She worked at a private academy. She smelled of lilies and cinnamon, and she spoke to me in a way that didn’t make me want to hide. She didn’t try to mother me right away. She didn’t ask me to call her anything. She didn’t touch my biological mother’s invisible ghosts. She didn’t intrude. She just seeped in. Slowly. First with bedtime stories. Then with Jell-O cups. Then with hair ribbons that actually ended up perfectly even. My dad began to laugh differently—a deep, booming sound, as if he were almost guilty for being so happy. They married six months later. I wore a white dress with embroidered flowers and fell asleep before the cake was cut. Eleanor never tried to replace my mother. Or so I blindly believed. She taught me how to tie my shoes. She bandaged my scraped knees. She made me tea when my stomach churned. She defended me fiercely in kindergarten when a PTA mom snickered that “stepmothers never love you the same.”