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Nicole never imagined she’d be in this position.
Four years ago, she was a single mother of two, living in a modest three-bedroom house in suburban Ohio. Her life was full—school pickups, dinner prep, dance recitals—but her heart still had space. When she met Derek at a mutual friend’s barbecue, she hadn’t expected much. But over time, their connection deepened, and so did the logistics of merging their lives.
Derek had a daughter, Kayla, from a previous relationship. At the time, Kayla was ten—sweet, quiet, and somewhat distant. Nicole met her on a rainy Saturday afternoon over pizza and board games. The girl barely spoke.
Now, Kayla is 14. And she wants to move in.
It wasn’t part of the original plan. Nicole and Derek had talked about custody arrangements and agreed early on that Kayla would stay primarily with her mother, with regular weekend visits. But life changes. Kayla’s relationship with her mom had deteriorated. There were arguments, tension, even school issues. Eventually, Kayla sat across from her father one weekend and said it plainly: “I want to live with you.”
Derek was floored. And so was Nicole.
At first, Nicole said nothing. She smiled supportively, nodded, and offered the girl another slice of pepperoni. But inside, her mind was spinning. Their house didn’t have a spare room. Her kids—Emily, 12, and Mason, 9—already shared space tightly. Weekends with Kayla were one thing. Full-time was different.
But more than that, there was an emotional layer Nicole wasn’t ready to face: she and Kayla had never been close.
Kayla was polite, yes, but distant. She rarely joined family movie nights. She refused to eat the meals Nicole cooked unless they were basic—chicken nuggets, mac and cheese. She kept earbuds in most of the time. She called Nicole by her first name, never “stepmom” or anything close. And now this girl—who never looked her in the eyes—would be living under her roof?
Nicole went to bed that night filled with unease. She wasn’t heartless. But she needed a way to make this work. She needed boundaries, not just for Kayla, but for herself.
The next morning, over coffee while Derek was upstairs waking the kids, Nicole pulled out a notepad and scribbled down three sentences.
Three rules.
It wasn’t meant to be a contract, not exactly. But it was something to keep the peace.
Rule One: Write Me a Letter Every Sunday
Nicole didn’t expect warmth from Kayla. But she longed for communication—something real, even if it wasn’t verbal. Her idea was simple: once a week, Kayla would write a short letter or note. It could be a paragraph. A few lines. Just something to tell her how her week went, or how she was feeling.
It wasn’t homework. It was a bridge.
Nicole hoped that, maybe, with time, this ritual could open a door.
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