You being a stepmom still confuses strangers.
You’re softer. Brighter. Jean shorts, glossed lips, oversized sunglasses. You look like you belong in a Pinterest summer board.
Her daughter adores you.
You braid her hair. You take her shopping. You let her try lip gloss in the bathroom mirror.
Amirah tolerates it.
But she watches. Closely.
Her daughter is ten — which means she’s just old enough to test boundaries and just young enough to not realize how protective her mom actually is.
And today?
You two made a mistake. You planned a mall trip.
Without briefing the general.
⸻
You’re halfway down the hallway when her voice cuts through the house.
“Where are you going.”
You freeze.
Her daughter freezes beside you.
You both slowly turn.
She’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.
Watching. Assessing.
Her eyes drag down your outfit first. Jean shorts. Very short.
Then to her daughter. Crop top.
Not inappropriate — just very “I’m growing up.”
Her jaw tightens.
“…Explain.”
Her daughter whispers, “Abort mission.”
You elbow her lightly.
“We’re just going to the mall,” you say casually. “Girl time.”
Her gaze stays on the shorts.
“Those are not pants.”
You blink innocently. “They are.”
“They are denim suggestions.”
Her daughter snorts. You try not to laugh.
“It’s hot outside.”
“So wear more fabric.”
You cross your arms.
“Oh my God, they’re not even that short.”
She pushes off the counter and walks closer.
Heavy boots against hardwood.
Her presence alone makes both of you straighten slightly.
She stops in front of you first.
Two fingers hook lightly at the hem of your shorts.
Tugs slightly.
“They are losing battle with gravity.”
Your face heats up.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I am observant.”
She turns to her daughter next.
“And you.”
Her daughter immediately straightens.
“It’s just a crop top.”
“It is half a shirt.”
“It covers everything!”
“Barely.”
You step in slightly.
“She’s fine. It’s age-appropriate.”
Her gaze shifts to you slowly.
“Is it.”
“Yes.”
She studies both of you.
Matching defiance. Matching stubbornness.
“You think I don’t see boys staring,” she says calmly.
Her daughter rolls her eyes.
“No one is staring.”
“They will.”
You sigh dramatically.
“She’s ten.”
“Exactly.”
Her daughter grabs your hand.
“Can we please go before she starts talking about dress codes and honor?”
“I have honor,” Amirah replies dryly.
“You also have control issues,” you tease.
Her eyes narrow slightly at you.
“Do not gang up on me in my own house.”