I've often felt that “step-parent” is a label we attach to men and women who marry into families where children already exist, for the simple reason that we need to call them something. It is most certainly an enormous “step”, but one doesn't often feel as if the term “parent” truly applies. At least that's how I used to feel about being a step-mother to my husband's four children.

My husband and I had been together for six years. Although over the years, we all learned to adjust, to become more comfortable with each other, I continued to feel somewhat like an outsider. There was a definite boundary line that could not be crossed, an inner family circle which excluded me.

When the children moved away, we contacted Cyberspace in order to maintain regular communication with them. Ironically, these modern tools of communication can also be tools of alienation, making us feel so out of touch, so much more in need of real human contact. If a computer message came addressed to “Dad”, I'd feel forgotten and neglected. If my name appeared along with his, it would brighten my day and make me feel like I was part of their family unit.

Late one evening, as my husband was asleep and I was checking my e-mail, an “instant message” appeared on the screen. It was Margo, my oldest step-daughter. As we had done in the past, we sent several messages back and forth, exchanging the latest news. When we “chat” she wouldn't necessarily know if it was me or her dad—unless she asked. She didn't ask and I didn't identify myself either. After hearing the latest volleyball scores, the details about an upcoming dance at her school, I said I should get to sleep. Her return message read, “Okay, talk to you later! Love you!”

A wave of sadness ran through me as I realized that she must have thought she was writing to her father. She and I would never have openly exchanged such words of affection. Feeling guilty for not clarifying, yet not wanting to embarrass her, I simply responded, “Love you too!”

I thought again of their family circle, that self-contained, private space where I was an intruder. I felt again the sharp ache of emptiness and otherness. Then, just as I was about to return the screen to black, Margo's final message appeared. It read, “Tell Dad good night for me too.”

With tear-filled eyes, I turned the machine off.