Womb with a view: ‘Being a stepmother: the truth in black and white’

R’ eaxcpheerli Eendcweards as a black stepmother to white children inspired her to write a novel with a deadly ending

how do famil ies happen? Often, just as they have since the dawn of mankind. Others are brought t o g e th e r by a miraculous collision. One moment you’re a single woman, the next you’re raising children, but you’ve not given birth. Now imagine they are conspicuously ‘not yours’, that you are black and they are white.

Following one such remarkable collision, I’ve spent 15 years as a full-time stepmother. Now the kids are 20 and I’m publishing my D, debutaabrolituntgn othvel ,t ense relationship between black British nurse Darling White and her white stepdaughter, Lola, 16. In six months, one of them is dead.

So why did I write a dark novel where the central relationship appears toxic? Was I revealing my own experiences? Or was I saying something altogether different and, to my mind, more important?

Peter and I met at work, a marketing company. He was separated, a single dad 12 years my senior, and my boss – plenty there to quash any romance. After two years at the company I left, jetting off to Cuba for a month. An incredible trip, too good for my bank balance. So much so that I needed my old job back. Peter seemed thrilled. One lunch, one unexpected touch of my hand and the penny dropped… we started dating.

I knew early on it was the real deal. I had to – being the child of divorced parents, I would not enter the lives of his children, five-yearold twins Emma and Charlie, unless it was for good. They lived with him full-time and didn’t see their mum – it was essential to get it right. Three years later, aged 32, I moved in, and the last in a long line of nannies drove off. We decided I’d prioritise caring for them over paid work. It sounded ideal… but where are a stepmother’s boundaries? How much of the mum role do I take on and how much do I respectfully leave? I had no clue.

Instinct kicked in. I knew zilch about stepmothering, but I sure as hell knew how to mother, thanks to my own nurturing Jltoahvmeemai.caant mum. I would just first, Emma and Charlie were taken aback that I would be moving in – wary, hopeful, in part happy and, no doubt, in part afraid of change. I can still picture their wide-eyed gaze, neither speaking. I was terrified that I could not be everything they needed… but I was committed to doing whatever it took.

Cue endless child-rearing practicalities, from sports days to packed lunches. I suspected it could be disastrous because I was a writer: obsessive, intense, always immersed in a project. Baking wasn’t high on my agenda. Plus stepmothers have received centuries of terrible press. But we could be an original masterpiece: I would try to shape the narrative and ensure we had a happy ending. What could go wrong?

Not much, it turned out, apart from the usual: broken wrists and lost shoes, coats, te.evbmeurpytteharnisn,x gieties always lurk. Children worry that any stepmother may not love or understand them. Might mark them out as different. And it’s not just the kids: I was to do everything a mother would do, except actually be ‘Mum’ since they already had one. It felt like a tall order, but I was hopelessly in love.

A hell of a lot went right. Laughing through the mess of life together, we merged into one whole. Peter and I put the children first and still prioritised our relationship. Race rarely came into the equation. I loved that Emma seemed to have been born believing in equality for all; I was profoundly moved when teenage Charlie w12a syoeaurtsraged by the injustices of A. M Syla wveonderful, empathetic, very English stepson bought a Caribbean cookbook, inscribed with best wishes for the novel he had every confidence I’d write. And I love my adventurous stepdaughter, which is crucial to emphasise having written this book. But there’s no denying that the stepmother-stepdaughter relationship can be uncertain; daggers drawn at worst. As the adult, it is down to you to try. And love.

Naturally, I screwed up. I have fumed, said words I’ve regretted, and behaved selfishly at times. But despite occasions when I’d ‘go for petrol’ just to escape the kids’ bickering, or submerge myself in a four-hour bath, it’s been a joy to raise our family. When they left for university, I realised the miracle of what we had become.

People may attribute Darling and Lola’s harshest feelings to my relationship with Emma. Acquaintances will cluck, ‘How could you write that?’ (almost never asked of male authors). My harshest critics are probably competitive birth mothers, eager to distance my own experience from ‘real motherhood’. Bouurt Emma adores the book: she’s lived truth. Being a full-time stepmother is not e txhaec tslayme as being a mother, nor is it lesser – it’s extraordinary in its own right.

D isa rnlointg our true story – it’s a cautionary tale, an imagining of what can happen if love is abused; if racism is allowed to corrupt love. In the meantime, we must continue to believe in the miracle.