It is often difficult to imagine that there could ever be another woman capable of loving, accepting, and caring for you the way your own mother does. Growing up, I believed that once a mother is gone, no one could ever truly fill the empty space she leaves in a child’s heart. ALSO READ: Thoughtful Mother’s Day gift ideas to make her feel truly special Raised in a humble family in Gatsata with both parents by my side, I often heard people say that no love compares to a mother’s love. In Kinyarwanda, there is a saying: “Akabura ntikaboneke ni nyina w’umuntu,” meaning that nothing can truly replace someone’s mother. At the time, I understood those words deeply, but I never imagined how much more meaningful they would become later in my life. ALSO READ: Mother’s Day: A celebration of motherhood When my mother passed away, I was only 13. My younger sister was just six. Losing her left a wound that words can hardly describe. As the firstborn, I immediately felt the weight of responsibility and the painful absence of a mother figure in our home. At the same time, my relationship with my father was distant. We were never very close growing up, and after my mother’s death, it felt as though the bridge connecting us had completely collapsed. Then came the COVID-19 pandemic. During that difficult period, a woman I had never known before began visiting our home. She treated my sister and me with a kindness and care I did not expect. Eventually, my father sat me down and told me that she was going to become part of our family. Honestly, if I had been given the power to refuse, I probably would have. Like many children who lose a parent, I believed that no one could ever replace my mother. But because I was studying at boarding school, I also knew my little sister needed someone to be there for her. Reluctantly, I accepted the idea that this woman would become our stepmother. The long lockdown period became the true test. I had grown up hearing negative stories about stepmothers; that they mistreat children or care only about family wealth. I expected the worst. To make matters harder, I was not always respectful or obedient toward her, something that could easily have pushed her away from us. But life took another turn when my father lost his job at a construction site. Suddenly, she became the one carrying the burden of providing for the family. Day after day, she worked tirelessly to make sure we had everything we needed. That was the moment I began to realize an uncomfortable truth: love is not always defined by blood. When schools reopened, I returned to boarding school. Yet even then, I struggled to accept her publicly as my mother. Whenever she visited me at school, I introduced her as my aunt. Calling her “Mummy” felt impossible. The word simply would not come out of my mouth. Still, time has a way of revealing people’s true hearts. Through patience, kindness, and sacrifice, she slowly changed the way I saw her. She taught me humility, even during moments when I wanted to fight back against life. More importantly, she became the reason I finally rebuilt my relationship with my father. She helped restore a bond that had been broken for years. Of course, no one can erase the memory of a biological mother. My mother will always remain a part of me. But sometimes, God places extraordinary people in our lives to heal wounds we believe may never recover. In a family filled with doctors who expected their children to follow the same path, she was one of the few people who truly believed in my dream of becoming a journalist. While others doubted me, she encouraged me. While others questioned my choices, she stood beside me. That support meant more than words can explain. Today, I no longer call her by her name. I call her my mother. As the world celebrates Mother's Day, on May 10, I believe we should honour not only the women who gave birth to us, but also the women who step into broken families and choose love over division; women who carry burdens in silence, heal wounds they did not create, and build homes with patience, sacrifice, and compassion. My stepmother is one of those women. She may not have carried me for nine months, but she carried me through some of the hardest years of my life. And for that, she will always be my hero. The writer is a journalist.
