'I'm a step-mother. There's one brutal truth I've never admitted out loud.'

If you want to support independent women's media, become a Mamamia subscriber. Get an all-access pass to everything we make, including exclusive podcasts, articles, videos and our exercise app, MOVE.

I feel guilty if I say it aloud, so here's the unspoken truth as a stepmother. A letter to my loving husband.

To my dear husband,

There's a truth I've never said aloud, and it feels almost impossible to speak — not because it isn't real, but because it feels heavy with guilt and shame.

I may never love your daughter.

At least, not in the way a parent naturally and instinctively loves. And certainly not in the way I love our child. And that truth — this jagged, ugly truth — feels like something that might shatter us if I said it out loud. But I need to try. I need to speak it, not to hurt you, but to free myself — and maybe, just maybe, to find a way forward together.

Watch: Parentification and cultural expectations. Post continues after video.

The love I have for her doesn't come easy. It doesn't come naturally. It feels forced. Like something expected rather than something born from within. They say pressure makes diamonds, but this pressure? It's heavy. A weight I carry in silence, in dishes washed, clothes folded, meals made, routines adjusted, missed Mother's Day acknowledgements — all for a child who isn't mine, who doesn't call me mum, and maybe never will.

Before I was "mummy," I was "stepmum". It was a role I didn't understand until I lived it, until I felt the quiet ache of being second place in someone else's story, doing the work of a parent without the warmth of being truly seen as one. There's a loneliness in that, a grief even — a constant hum of not quite belonging.

And then we had him — our baby. Our beautiful boy. The way I love him is beyond anything I ever imagined. It's instinctive, magnetic, consuming. He is my heartbeat outside of my body. I ache for him when he's not in my arms. His laughter heals me. His cuddles stop time. When I look at him, I see the best parts of both of us — the evidence of a love we made together.

And in that love, I find myself... torn.

I'm torn between being a good partner to you and a present, whole mother to him. Torn between trying to share my heart and feeling like I'm failing someone — or everyone — in the process. When your daughter is with us, it feels like our world shifts, pulling me further from my son. I know I shouldn't feel like I have to choose, but sometimes it's hard not to.

I see him go without.

Without time. Without consistency. Without the kind of peace that only comes from knowing what to expect and who will be there. And that breaks something in me. I see him confused when the bedtime routine changes, when your arms are busy holding someone else, when I'm emotionally spent from navigating another child's presence and needs.

And it's not her fault. She's just a child. But she carries with her all the complications of a past I wasn't part of — a different home, different rules, different values. Sometimes, I'm scared of what that will mean for our son. What he'll absorb. What he'll lose in the process of learning how to share his family with someone who's only half in, half out.

I don't know how to say this without sounding cruel, but sometimes I feel like I need to protect him from her. From her chaos, from her needs, from the parts of her life that spill into ours. From the pain I see him carry when he's too little to understand what's happening.

I hate that I feel that way.

And I hate even more what this is doing to you. Because I see how hard you try. I see you juggling two worlds, being pulled in opposite directions, trying to be everything to everyone.

You didn't ask for this fracture. And yet, I know you feel it too.

I know love here doesn't come easily for me as a step-parent. Some days, it takes every bit of strength I have just to keep showing up and trying. I'm not always the patient, graceful, selfless woman I wish I could be — but I'm learning, slowly, to be gentle with myself. Loving your daughter isn't natural for me; it's something I have to nurture and work on every single day. And even when it's hard, even when my heart feels heavy, I hold onto hope — hope that with time, kindness, and patience, love can grow in unexpected ways, for both her and for me.

Sometimes it feels like you have to choose, and more often than not, you choose her. Maybe you should — she needs you more, maybe. She's not here all the time. She doesn't have the stability our son has, but I'm afraid he'll lose it. Still, it isn't easier to watch you miss another bedtime, to see you leave for activities we didn't help plan, for schools we didn't help pick, for routines we didn't build together.

Sometimes I feel like I'm watching our son grow up in your absence — not because you're gone, but because your heart is divided. And I know mine is too.

I don't know how to fix this. How do I make our blended family feel whole?

I don't know how to create wholeness from something that was already fractured when I stepped into it. I don't know how to give more love when I feel like I'm already stretched too thin.

But I do know this: I want to try.

I want to figure out how to love in the messy places. To love imperfectly. To build something from the cracks — not by pretending they don't exist, but by growing through them. I don't want to resent your daughter. I don't want to fear what she takes from us. I want to learn how to accept what she brings. I want to find peace in this chaos — for our son, for our family, for us.

Because despite all of this, I believe in us.

I believe that if we can be this honest — this raw and unfiltered — then we can also find our way back to softness. To connection. To a life where all our children feel safe, wanted, and loved — even if that love looks different for each of them.

I need your help. I need your partnership. I need your heart in this, not just your time. Because I know that no matter how complicated things get, our son deserves a home where love isn't stretched thin, but grown intentionally.

Even in the mess, I still have hope.

With all my honesty,

Your wife.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remained anonymous for privacy purposes.

Read more about step-parenting:

• ISABELLE SILBERY: 'My open letter every step-parent needs to read.'

• 'I'm tired of fighting the "evil stepmum" stereotype.'

• Kelly and Mia were forced to live with their step-mothers. Their outcomes were vastly different.

Feature image: Gett