My daughter spent weeks crocheting hats for sick children, and the day my husband left for a business trip, everything she worked so hard for disappeared — along with whatever patience I still had for my mother-in-law. By the time my husband returned, he made sure we were never hurt like that again.For ten years it had been just me and Emma. Her father passed away when she was three, and for years, we lived in this constant rhythm: grief, healing, survival, then finally, peace. When I met Daniel, I was terrified to disturb that peace. But he didn’t disturb anything — he added to it. He and Emma connected almost immediately. He packed her lunches with silly notes, helped her with school projects, braided her hair, and read her favorite stories every night. He stepped into her life with love, not obligation.

But his mother, Carol, never saw Emma that way.It’s sweet that you pretend she’s your real daughter,” she said once, right in front of him.

Another time: “Stepchildren never feel like true family. They’ll always remind you they came from someone else.”

And then the one that made my spine turn to ice: “Your daughter must remind you of your wife’s dead husband. That must be difficult.”

Daniel shut her down every time, but the comments never stopped.