You see me at Thanksgiving, passing the mashed potatoes, laughing at your son’s old baby photos. You think: She’s polite. Quiet, maybe. A little guarded.

I remember the first time I met you. I spent two hours picking out a sweater that said “respectful but not try-hard.” I practiced your name in the mirror. “Mrs. ——.” Not too formal. Not too casual. When I walked in, your son squeezed my hand so hard I lost circulation. That was the only thing keeping me from shaking.

I don’t correct him. But I think: maybe she would. Maybe she’s just never been given the chance.

You see me as a guest. A temporary character in your family’s story. But I’m writing my own version too. In mine, I’m not trying to take your son. I’m trying to love him without losing myself. I’m trying to earn a seat at a table that keeps one chair slightly too far back.