Growing up, my stepfather Stephen was more than just a parent. He became my rock after my mom passed away when I was just 10. Our home felt empty and strange without her. The first few years were tough for both of us.

Everything in my life changed. Stephen wasn’t just a new parent; he was a stranger trying to fill my mom’s shoes. At first, I didn’t make it easy for him.

I was angry and sad, and Stephen was the one who had to deal with all of it. But he never gave up on me. He was always there, helping with homework, attending school events, and listening when I needed to talk.

“Hey, kiddo,” Stephen would say softly, peeking into my room. “How was school today?”

“Fine,” I muttered, not looking up from my book. I missed my mom so much, and Stephen had no idea how to handle my grief.

“Dinner’s ready if you’re hungry,” he said, trying to sound cheerful.

“I’m not hungry,” I snapped, feeling a surge of anger. “I want Mom!”

Stephen worked tirelessly to provide for us. He made sure I had everything I needed, from school supplies to support for my hobbies.

“I’m trying my best here, Nancy,” Stephen said one night after a particularly heated argument about my curfew. “This isn’t easy for me either.”

“You’re not my dad!” I yelled, tears streaming down my face. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

But Stephen never gave up. He attended every school event, no matter how small.

“Look, there’s Stephen,” my friend whispered at a school play. “He never misses anything.”

“Yeah,” I admitted grudgingly. “He always shows up.”

“I signed you up for soccer camp,” Stephen announced one day, handing me a registration form.

“Really?” I asked, my eyes lighting up. “Thanks, Stephen!”