As a child, I fell for the ‘evil stepmother’ myth. Then life handed me a plot twist

My name is Madeleine Gray. My friends call me Maddy. My brother called me Rooster. But I used to introduce myself with a different title. When I was young, I would regularly declare, with a not insubstantial amount of theatrical relish, that I was a “child of divorce”.

I was four when my parents separated, and as I grew older, the phrase became part of my identity: something between a confession and a performance. It drew sympathy from adults, lent me an air of intrigue and, if I’m honest, gave me a role to play.

Then came the complication. My father remarried. Her name was Helen, and for years I insisted I couldn’t stand her.

This, however, is not quite true. The reality is far less dramatic and far more uncomfortable: I liked Helen almost immediately. She was warm, attentive, wore Alannah Hill cardigans (the height of sophistication at the time) and – crucially – she made my father happy. My dislike of her was something I had to cultivate, almost rehearse.

Because by then, I already knew the script.

I had watched the films. I had read the fairy tales. I understood that stepmothers were not to be trusted. They were interlopers, disruptors, women who arrived after the fact and unsettled what should have remained intact. Even when they appeared kind, there was always the suggestion of something lurking beneath the surface.

From childhood stories to modern cinema, the archetype is remarkably consistent: the stepmother as threat, as counterfeit maternal figure. She exists in opposition to the “real” mother, her presence framed as inherently destabilising. And so Helen, despite all evidence to the contrary, had been cast in a role she could not escape — and, in my own small way, I made sure she didn’t.

Looking back, I can see the logic of it, even if I no longer agree with it. Children crave clarity. We want to know who belongs where, who to trust, how to feel. The figure of the stepmother offered a neat solution to a messy emotional reality. If she was the problem, then everything else could remain stable.

Two decades later, life handed me a plot twist of my own.

I fell in love. It was joyful, consuming, and – like many love stories – unexpected in its details. My partner had a young child. And so, quite suddenly, I found myself stepping into a role I had once viewed with suspicion: I became a stepmother.

There is a particular kind of irony in this. The abstract becomes immediate; the assumptions you once held begin to feel thin, even embarrassing, when tested against reality. It is one thing to inherit a narrative. It is another to live inside it.

The underlying message is difficult to ignore: maternal love is framed as something that can only truly belong to a biological mother.

It is only from this vantage point that I have begun to understand what Helen must have experienced all those years ago.

Step-parenting is, in many ways, invisible labour. It demands emotional investment without offering automatic recognition. There is no clear script, no universally accepted boundaries, and often very little grace extended from the outside world. You are neither fully inside nor entirely outside; you occupy a space that is difficult to define.

Strangers, other parents, even well-meaning friends can treat the role as provisional – as though one is merely “helping out” rather than actively parenting. The implication lingers that the bond is somehow lesser, conditional or temporary. For a role that requires patience, resilience and a great deal of selflessness, stepmothers in particular suffer from a striking lack of goodwill.

Of course, this perception did not emerge in a vacuum. The figure of the stepmother has long been culturally maligned. Classical mythology offers its own cautionary tales; later literature and film only reinforce the pattern. Again and again, we encounter women who disrupt families, compete with mothers or conceal darker intentions beneath a veneer of care.

The underlying message is difficult to ignore: maternal love is framed as something innate, even exclusive; something that can only truly belong to a biological mother. Any deviation from that model is treated with wariness, as though affection must be authenticated by blood.

In reality, families are rarely so simple.

In my own case, I am part of a queer family structure. My child has multiple maternal figures, each with a distinct role, each contributing something meaningful to his life. Far from being destabilising, this has created a network of care that feels expansive rather than divided. Love, in this context, is not a finite resource to be guarded, but something that grows with attention.

Yet it also challenges conventional expectations. Even now, I sometimes encounter confusion when I collect him from school, or subtle questions about where exactly I “fit”. Do I get to stand with him as he blows out his birthday cake candles, or is that role reserved for the two “primary” parents? Is it okay that he calls my dad “Pa”? How long do I have to be in this for other parents to think of me as their equal?

It really doesn’t matter – what matters is how my son feels - but at the same time children intuit far more than we give them credit for. They pick up on hesitation, on hierarchy, on the unspoken rules that govern adult interactions. I know this because I was once that child, scanning the room for cues, working out where everyone stood.

The truth is, there is no single template for how families should look, or how love should operate within them.

That said, stepping into parenthood in this way comes with its own particular challenges. Unlike biological parents, I did not have a gradual transition into the role. There was no long period of anticipation, no immediate, instinctive bond formed at birth. Instead, I entered the life of a small child who had already experienced significant change, and I had to earn his trust over time.

It is one thing to care for a toddler; it is another to build a relationship with one from scratch. Authority, too, can feel uncertain. How much discipline is appropriate? When should one step in and when should one defer? These are questions without easy answers, and they are often accompanied by a persistent undercurrent of self-doubt.

In public, the ambiguity can feel particularly acute. A misbehaving child invites judgment; a stepparent’s response invites scrutiny. Too firm, and you risk overstepping. Too lenient, and you risk being seen as negligent. There is no obvious middle ground, only a series of decisions made in real time, each one open to interpretation.

Love is not solely the domain of biology, it can be cultivated through care, through attention, through the steady accumulation of shared experience.

There were moments, particularly in the early days, when I felt overwhelmed by the responsibility. My life had, until then, been largely my own. Suddenly, it was not. The adjustment was profound and not always graceful. There were frustrations, and – though difficult to admit – occasional flashes of resentment. Not toward the child himself, but toward the suddenness of the shift, the way it reconfigured my sense of autonomy.

Acknowledging this feels important. There is a tendency, particularly in narratives about parenting, to smooth over these edges, to present love as immediate and uncomplicated. But for me, love was something that grew over time. It was built through effort, through persistence, through a willingness to remain present even when the emotional rewards were not immediate.

What emerged between us was not an imitation of a biological bond, but something distinct and no less meaningful. Affection grew in the small, everyday moments: shared games, bedtime routines, quiet conversations that drifted and looped in the way only conversations with children can. Trust, once tentative, became instinctive.

Today, my son calls me “Mumma”, one of several variations he uses for the maternal figures in his life. It is a simple word, but it carries weight. It signifies not just affection, but belonging. There is something profoundly reassuring in this. It suggests that love is not solely the domain of biology, that it can be cultivated through care, through attention, through the steady accumulation of shared experience.

Looking back, I often think of Helen. I think of the effort she must have made, the patience she showed and the resistance she likely faced, not just from me, but from the broader narrative that cast her in a role she never chose. I think, too, of how easy it is to misunderstand someone when you are committed to seeing them through a particular lens.

If I could speak to her now, I would offer something I did not then: an apology, certainly, but also a recognition of what she gave. Of the quiet, unacknowledged labour of showing up for a child who was not always willing to meet her halfway.

The “evil stepmother” may endure as a cultural trope, but it bears little resemblance to the lived reality. In its place is something far more complex, and far more human: a figure navigating ambiguity, offering care without guarantee, and building love where none was initially given.

There are many ways to form a family, and many ways to love a child. Some are immediate; others are built slowly, piece by piece. Both, in the end, are real.

Chosen Family (Simon & Schuster) by Madeleine Gray is out now.

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