When I married Daniel, I knew I was joining a family that was still grieving. His wife had died, and his daughter Lily, who was fifteen, completely ignored me. She didn’t argue or act angry—she just acted like I wasn’t there. If I walked into a room, she left. If I spoke, she put on her headphones. She only ate after I was gone.
Daniel kept saying she just needed time. But the silence was painful and always there.
I tried to be careful. I didn’t touch her mother’s things or change the house. I didn’t force conversations. I stayed out of her way, even though it hurt.
One night after 2 a.m., I heard someone in the kitchen. Daniel was asleep, so I went downstairs. Lily was there, standing still with a recipe in her hand. The recipe was for her mom’s cake. She looked lost and didn’t know what to do.
I knew if I talked to her directly, she would leave. So I sat down and talked out loud, pretending I was just thinking to myself about baking and how eggs should be warm.
After a long silence, Lily quietly spoke. She said her mom always warmed the eggs first.
We didn’t look at each other, but we baked together for hours, sharing small instructions. When the cake was done, Lily tasted it and started crying. She said she didn’t want it to taste the same as her mom’s.
I told her that was okay—nothing ever tastes the same.
Then she said something important: she thanked me for not trying to replace her mother. I told her I never wanted to.
After that night, Lily didn’t suddenly become close to me, but she stopped avoiding me. She stayed in the room. Sometimes she talked. Once, she even asked me to teach her how I cook.
Daniel noticed too. He said Lily now stayed at the table during dinner.
Sometimes we’re both in the kitchen late at night. Now, she doesn’t freeze when she sees me. She just hands me a spoon and reminds me not to use a whisk.