My kids visit their dad on weekends. His new wife tried to get close, but my daughters only call her by name. One day, my ex demanded, “You must tell them to call my wife Mom!” I said absolutely no.
The next day, while picking up the kids, I was shocked to see them run out of the house calling her “Mom” like it was the most natural thing in the world. I stood by my car, blinking like I’d walked into the wrong universe. The girls—Mara, 11, and Lacey, 8—were smiling, all chipper and cheery.
“Bye, Mom!” they chirped in unison, waving at Dana, my ex’s new wife, who looked just as surprised as I felt. Dana caught my eye and quickly looked away. That was my first clue something was off.
I kept my mouth shut during the drive home. Mara hummed some pop song under her breath. Lacey snacked on pretzels like it was any normal Sunday.
But that “Mom” echoed in my ears louder than anything. By the time we pulled into the driveway, I couldn’t take it anymore. “So… calling Dana ‘Mom’ now?” I tried to sound neutral.
Mara’s humming stopped. Lacey stopped chewing. “She made us,” Mara said bluntly, staring out the window.
“Said Dad wanted us to. Said if we didn’t, we were being disrespectful and we’d get in trouble.”
Lacey looked up at me, eyes wide. “She said we had to do it while you were watching.
So you’d ‘get the message.’”
I swear, my blood pressure hit the moon. I took a deep breath, nodded, and said, “Thanks for telling me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
They both looked so relieved.
But me? I was a mess of rage and worry. I waited till they were settled with snacks and cartoons, then pulled out my phone and texted my ex: We need to talk.
Now. His response came three hours later. “They’re my kids too.
Dana deserves respect. You’re poisoning them against us.”
And that’s when I knew this wasn’t about the girls. This was about control.
Our divorce had been brutal. Not in court, but emotionally. He left me for Dana when Lacey was still in diapers.
I’d put my life back together, slowly and painfully. But he never could handle the fact that the kids were closer to me, that I’d become their anchor. Still, I never spoke badly about him or Dana.
I kept my side of the street clean. And now? He was trying to force a bond that didn’t exist.
The next weekend, I let them go again, but this time, I gave them something to say. “If anyone tells you to call someone something you’re not comfortable with,” I told them gently, “you don’t have to do it. Just say, ‘I already have a mom.’ Okay?”
They both nodded, eyes huge, grateful.
I waited all weekend for the fallout. It came on Sunday night. Dana called me herself.
Her voice was tight, too sweet to be sincere. “I don’t appreciate the girls being coached to disrespect me,” she said. “It’s confusing for them.”
“No,” I said, calm but firm.
“What’s confusing is adults giving them ultimatums about something as personal as who they call Mom. You want a relationship with them? Earn it.”
There was a pause.
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