I knew going in that it wouldn’t be easy to serve in a stepfather’s role for my fiancee’s young daughter, Sarah.
When we first met eight years ago, she was sullen, moody and sad. Not all of the time, but so frequently that I kept my distance. I couldn’t break through her wall of anger toward the world. Or toward herself. So I politely danced around her emotions as well as I could.
It was difficult, frustrating and, quite honestly, infuriating.
My two biological children were already adults at that point and on their way to successful careers and productive lives. I felt that my role as a father was, for the most part, completed. The hardest part, anyway.
I view parenting as giving children roots and wings. My two kids had both, thanks to my family. After 20-plus years of parenting, I could finally exhale. Or so I thought.
Sarah and I, along with her mother and her older brother, became what’s called a “blended family.” We didn’t, however, always blend so well. Especially when it came to me and Sarah. We butted heads often. She probably didn’t like this strange man in her life, and I didn’t like dealing with a temperamental young girl.
As any stepparent knows, this is part of the price for falling in love with someone who has young children. Your romantic relationship must be worth the trouble or heartache. Really worth it. Or it’s not. I’ve seen too many fiery romances get doused by the cold water of children who want nothing to do with their new stepfather or stepmother.
In the early days, Sarah simply called me Jerry. Only later did she describe me as her “stepfather” even though her mother and I have never married. It was easier for her to tell friends at school, she said, rather than explain I was her mother’s boyfriend or fiance.
Through the years, I’ve attended school events for her — academic awards, extracurricular events, lunchtime surprises, field trips — so much so that her friends thought I was her father. I took it as a compliment. So did she, she later told me.
I watched Sarah go from using crayons to applying makeup. From being withdrawn to being assertive. More important, from being a melancholy girl to a self-assured young woman.
She is a confident, introspective honors student and a bit mysterious. One of her friends once told her that her thick mane of hair is full of other kids’ secrets. I don’t doubt it.
It sounds cliche to say Sarah has an old soul, but I don’t know how else to explain such wisdom beyond her age. She is anything but a typical teenage girl. She doesn’t dress like one or talk like one. And she doesn’t feel compelled to act like one. Peer pressure is only a rumor in her life.
Sarah also is a creative force with true artistic talents. Some of her artwork has already sold via social media and at Sip Coffee House in Crown Point, among other places. (I have a secret folder of every other piece of artwork she has created.)
I once told her that the arts can be the best outlet for confusing emotions. She has since painted her world in brighter, happier colors. I couldn’t be more proud of her latest self-portraits, emotionally speaking.
It has taken me years to discover all these traits and to admire her blossoming maturity. Like I said, it hasn’t always been easy or rewarding. There were times when I exhaled after dropping her off at school or a friend’s house or, well, anywhere for that matter.
Nonetheless, a thread of hope has always connected us. We have woven together a tapestry of love, respect and appreciation for each other. She now says “thank you” from her heart, not because her mother told her to. She now gives hugs out of love, not out of obligation.
For my latest birthday, Sarah gave my favorite kind of gift, from her heart, not from Hallmark.
“This is a poem that I wrote for Jerry. When you came in my life my heart became merry. We went to see Twenty-One Pilots together and we created a memory that will last forever. I know sometimes I am really confusing. But it is always you that I will be choosing. Because regardless of the life that I had, I know that you are my only Dad.”
Shortly after that day, I asked Sarah how she would like me to refer to her in public or when I introduce her to others. She replied, as my “daughter.” There’s no way I could not oblige her request. I’ll do whatever makes her feel loved and wanted.
Lately, I’ve been teaching Sarah how to drive my car. She recently obtained her learner’s permit and we’ve driven together for many hours on back roads and busy roads, crowded parking lots and sleepy subdivisions. Along the way, we’ll share our vastly different worlds with each other. It’s become our favorite destination.
I’m sharing all this now because Friday is Sarah’s sweet 16 birthday. Her mother and I are taking her to Chicago to see “Hamilton,” her favorite Broadway musical. She can recite nearly every lyric, including one she has helped me embrace: “Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now.”
Eight years ago, I never would have dreamed that Sarah and I would be this close. It wasn’t even something I thought I wanted or needed in my life. Silly dad.
Happy birthday, Sarah. Thank you for my surprise gift of your love.
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