Lately, I've been feeling like a ghost in my own home, if that makes any sense. Not in a spooky way, but in that way where you’re present, you’re physically there, but you're not *seen*. Not truly. It’s a strange sensation, this floating feeling, as if I’m observing my life from just outside the frame. And the most poignant moments of this bizarre detachment often happen when my husband’s children are over. They're good kids, really, bright and lively. But sometimes, when they start recalling old family stories, those inside jokes that have been polished over years of retelling, I feel this profound chasm open up. Like when one of them will say, "Remember that time Dad tried to deep-fry a turkey and almost set the garage on fire?" and they all collapse in laughter, a shared memory, a shared history that I simply wasn't part of. And it hits me then, every single time, this deep, almost existential pang of being an outsider. I'll smile, I'll even chuckle, trying to project a semblance of belonging, but inside, I'm just… empty. It’s not that I expect to be privy to every childhood anecdote, of course not. But it’s the sheer volume of them, the density of their shared past, that makes me question if I’ll ever truly… penetrate that history. Will I ever be more than the woman who married their father? Will I ever be seen as genuinely *theirs*? Not in a possessive way, just in a familial way. A member. Not an add-on. I spent so many years dedicated to raising my own children, lost in the beautiful chaos of stay-at-home motherhood, where my identity became so intertwined with theirs. And now, in this later stage of life, with my own kids grown and gone, I thought I’d found a new purpose, a new family. But here I am, still searching for a place, still feeling like an interloper. It’s almost laughable, this perpetual seeking. Aren't we all, as humans, just desperate to belong? To be genuinely, unreservedly loved, not just tolerated or accepted out of politeness? I catch myself sometimes, watching them, so vibrant and full of life, and I wonder what they truly think of me. Do they see me as a permanent fixture, or just a temporary one? Someone who’s… convenient? I try, I really do. I bake their favorite cookies, I listen to their stories about school and work, I offer advice when asked. But it feels like I’m constantly performing, constantly trying to earn something that should, perhaps, just be given. Or perhaps, that’s where I’m wrong. Perhaps genuine respect and love are *always* earned, never simply bestowed. And perhaps I'm just not earning it fast enough, or in the right way. Does anyone else feel this way? This constant, quiet struggle to truly integrate, to merge histories? Am I just overthinking it, allowing my own anxieties to paint a picture that isn't real? Or is there a fundamental truth here about blended families, about the indelible marks of a prior life that no amount of present-day effort can truly erase? It makes me question everything, sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet and my thoughts are too loud. Will I ever be more than just… her? The stepmother? I don't know. I really don't know.