November 7, 2016
It all started with a dull throb that escalated into a sharp pain shooting through the side of my head. No remedy seemed effective—neither medication nor rest could provide relief.
Seated in Dr. Ellis’s office in Beverly Hills, I noticed a sympathetic expression on his face reminiscent of my mother’s when she broke the news about my beloved pet. “I’m sorry, but you need root canals on both teeth. We can start with the first phase today,” he informed me.
“Proceed,” I replied, feeling a wave of anxiety wash over me.
As Dr. Ellis administered a generous dose of Novocain, tears filled my eyes. Yes, I was distressed about the substantial expense I would incur, but what weighed most heavily on me was the thought of losing two more vital teeth. Having undergone a couple of root canals before, including one in Italy without anesthesia, I was acutely aware of the process: the removal of living tissue, nerves, and blood supply, leaving behind only the hollowed-out shells, fortified by dental filling. My teeth would continue to function, but they would be lifeless—zombies, essentially. This loss felt particularly poignant, occurring just as I was undergoing my own significant transition.
Five months earlier, I had uprooted my life in Philadelphia to join Jake, my cinematographer boyfriend, in Los Angeles. Our romance blossomed while working together on a television project, leading me to leave behind 33 years of friendships and family—connections that ran as deep as my dental roots. Would relocating diminish those ties? Would my relationships become mere remnants, akin to the empty enamel left in my mouth?
Unlike my dental misfortune, Jake had been fortunate with his teeth, but he understood the concept of deep-rooted connections in ways I was still discovering.
During one of Jake’s visits to Philadelphia, his phone buzzed with a message from his ex. She shared nostalgic photos of their children, igniting a wave of jealousy within me. I fought to suppress it, recognizing it as unproductive. Instead, I focused on the images: Jake’s three children in pajamas, beaming in front of a Christmas tree, their youthful smiles lighting up the room.
For the initial three years of our long-distance relationship, it was always us (Jake and me) and them (Jake, his ex, and their kids). Even after my move to L.A., the divide persisted; Jake’s ex was yet to accept me, resulting in the children, aged 13 and 14, hesitating to meet me.
Jake continued his role as a devoted father—coaching soccer and cooking dinners at his ex’s house while she worked late. I remained on the sidelines, relishing the extra solitude but also wondering how long it would be before I became a part of their lives.
Then came the call from Lucy, Jake’s eldest daughter. We were driving home from a local festival when her voice trembled over the phone. “Dad, can you pick me up now?” she asked after a scary day at a haunted amusement park. My heart raced as I worried about her reaction upon seeing me in the car. Yet, she climbed in and treated me kindly.
The following day, when Jake mentioned he wouldn’t force our meeting, Lucy responded, “It’s okay. It’s hard to keep hating someone who’s so nice.” Suddenly, all three kids were eager to join us for dinner and spend time together. Our roots began intertwining, no longer separate but starting to grow together.
Who were these three newfound fixtures in my life? What were their quirks, aspirations, and fears? I was about to find out.
When I learned that their mother had taken a job out of town for a month, I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. They had never stayed with us for such an extended period. Jake had long hours on set, leaving me to wonder if I could adequately care for them. Would I manage to prepare meals that pleased them all? What if the eldest, who attended a math-focused charter school, required help with her homework? What if they all needed me at once? And what if, after spending time together, they concluded that their initial impressions of me were accurate?
Compounding my concerns was my recovery from the second phase of my root canals. After the first phase, even the slightest movement caused excruciating pain. Jake reassured me that his children were self-sufficient, but I couldn’t allow myself to retreat and rest. What kind of future stepmother would do that?
When I emerged from my root canal appointment, the sun blazed bright in the sky. I struggled to read my phone as the left side of my face remained numb from the Novocain. It was 5 p.m., and Jake had texted me, “Let me know when you’re done. The kids are waiting for you.”
I dialed his number. “How did it go?” he inquired, concern evident in his voice.
“Alright, but my roots are wickedly curved,” I replied.
“I love you and your wickedly curved roots. I’ll be home soon. Let the kids help you out,” he said.
As I stepped through the door, Lucy and her sister, Mia, took in my swollen face and inquired about my well-being. Lucy proudly presented the cheeseburgers she had prepared using her father’s recipe. She even offered me one with ketchup.
Jake’s youngest, Leo, gestured for me to lower myself so he could kiss the sore side of my face. I felt a twinge of guilt for allowing a 14-year-old to take charge of dinner, but I sensed pride in Lucy’s actions—a lesson from Jake about allowing kids to contribute.
“Want to watch a movie?” Mia asked.
We settled onto the couch as Lucy started My Neighbor Totoro, a charming Japanese animated film where a young girl, Mei, encounters the spirit of the forest amid the ancient trees’ roots.
By the end of the movie, Leo had fallen asleep on me, reminiscent of Mei napping peacefully on Totoro.
“I can put him to bed,” Lucy offered.
“I’ve got him. Thanks for dinner,” I said, struggling to lift the tall seven-year-old.
As we made our way to his room, he nestled his head on my chest. “I love you,” he murmured, holding my hand.
“Love you too,” I replied, surprised and elated by his words. I hadn’t yet expressed love to Jake’s children, fearing it might be overwhelming.
As Leo’s breathing slowed, I reflected on the many ways our new roots were forming. Discovering that Mia enjoyed singing like I did, her sharing YouTube videos for me to learn on the piano, hosting mini-concerts at home, Lucy asking me to review her essays, her comments about wanting another sibling, our shared gaming sessions on my childhood Super Nintendo—all these experiences were weaving our family fabric tighter.
Some roots may never regenerate, like those that once nourished my teeth. Others stretch far and continue to grow, connecting me to my Philadelphia family. But new roots can become just as substantial as old ones, demonstrating resilience and strength.
I heard Jake return home, his voice mingling with laughter from the girls. As the bedroom door creaked open, Leo snuggled closer, tightening his grip on my hand, and Jake joined us.
My affection for Jake’s children fills me with a warmth analogous to the deep, abiding love Jake and his ex share for them, a bond that runs profound and deep.
Despite being new, my roots are genuine and courageous. I see them intertwining, strengthening our family.
Summary:
In this heartfelt narrative, Mia reflects on her journey of forming new connections with her boyfriend Jake’s children after moving from Philadelphia to Los Angeles. As she navigates the complexities of step-parenting while recovering from dental surgery, she discovers the joy and challenges of blending families. Through shared experiences, laughter, and mutual support, they begin to nurture a familial bond, symbolizing the growth of new roots that hold promise and resilience.