Growing up, my household was an emotional circus. Home felt somewhat like a tavern—it felt like we were random individuals put together under the same roof, and I never knew who would be throwing a mug of beer at whom, or when the next brawl would occur (this is all figurative of course). Most of the fighting took place between my Dad and stepmom, between my Dad and stepbrother, and between my stepmom and me. My half sister seemed to be the only glue that held us together, and the only one not involved in any of the conflict. I can speculate about why my stepmother and I always butted heads, but I will never fully understand her side of the story without sitting down and asking her. I am not ready to do this, because I still harbor a lot of anger towards her and would rather not venture into the past just yet. The last thing I ever expected to feel was empathy for her feelings, but the other day I realized that an experience I am having must be quite similar to her experience of becoming my stepmother. This newfound empathy has come to me through taking care of an eight pound, grey, furry creature: my boyfriend’s dog. Her name is Bootsy.

Bootsy is a Pomeranian Poodle mix, and she is basically the family princess. She has always been “Daddy’s little girl,” adored and fawned over by my boyfriend and his two brothers. One brother, who is also his neighbor, practically shares custody of Bootsy. She runs back and forth between the two apartments, tending to stay next door for most of the time. As my boyfriend and I started to make plans to move in together, I became eager to start pretending that she was my dog. But it wasn’t easy to just become her new caretaker, because she still went next door all the time. She wasn’t used to relying on me for anything. I never knew when she ate or whether she had been walked, and I never had control over when she went next door and when she stayed with me. It frustrated me beyond belief, making me want to relinquish my responsibilities as her part-time caretaker. I started to feel resentful, as if she were purposely choosing not to let me in, which is ridiculous because after all, she is just a dog. Sharing her with multiple caretakers prevented me from bonding with her right away, and since I wasn’t there when she was a puppy, I don’t have that natural devotion to her. It’s hard to selflessly love a dog that I didn’t raise and that I don’t get full-time. It would be much easier if I were the one completely in control of her routine and the one she relies on for food because then I would become the object of her affection.

I bet my stepmom felt a little like this too. She came into my life when I was four or so, and I was stubborn, strong-willed, rambunctious, and I guess not what she had in mind for a daughter. And I was so used to soaking up the love from my dad, I don’t imagine I was willing to suddenly share my dad’s attention let alone let her step in and become my new parent. My dad didn’t help the situation because he was protective of me and didn’t let her take on any responsibility as my parent. All decisions about my future and well-being were to remain the sole responsibility of my dad. This put my stepmom in a very awkward situation, because she couldn’t find the appropriate way to relate to me, if not as my substitute mother. We started off on the wrong foot from the very beginning, which built a foundation of strict boundaries between us with confusing grey areas in between. It was difficult for both of us. We lived in the same house but were worlds away. Neither of us let the other in emotionally, which made for a strained relationship full of subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle tensions. For me, I never felt loved by her. Hugging or any sign of affection was a rarity between us. She pampered and babied my younger half sister and underhandedly criticized the things she didn’t like about me, especially my tom boyishness. She did her best to take care of me, advising me to wear jackets when it was cold and offering to make me soup when I was sick—things my own mother wasn’t around to do. But somehow I always ended up in the line of fire. I can remember numerous times when my stepbrother (her son) left dirty dishes in his room for weeks, but I would get yelled at for not immediately putting my breakfast bowl in the dishwasher. It must have been so hard for her to feel the same way she did for her own kids. I guess it seemed easier for her to keep me at arm’s length and feel resentment and dislike rather than work on building a relationship. The latter would have taken a great deal of vulnerability; something that I know makes her very uncomfortable.

I have always looked at my relationship with my stepmother from one side (mine), and until now, I couldn’t even fathom what it must have been like for her to “inherit” a child with her own personality that had formed before she arrived on the scene. It’s like we were two misfit puzzle pieces from different boxes that had been shoved together uncomfortably. With Bootsy I have it easy because one day she will be more my responsibility when my boyfriend and I move together, and as soon as she is more my responsibility, she will switch allegiances. With my stepmom and me, there will always be a gauzy layer of distrust, unless we start communicating openly and rehashing the mishaps of the past.