It wasn’t always like this. Lord, it truly wasn’t. The road to where we are now was long, rocky, and filled with moments I wasn’t sure we’d survive. You see, Ashley is my husband’s ex-wife and the mother of my stepchildren. To say our relationship began with tension and animosity would be a massive understatement. I understood that Ashley had every right to be protective of her children—she is their mother, and that responsibility is sacred. I never wanted to take her place. I knew I wasn’t their mommy. I was just Deanna. Not even their dad’s girlfriend yet—just a friend. Still, I questioned whether I could really handle the emotional ups and downs of loving someone who shared children and a complicated past with another woman. At the time, I honestly wasn’t sure I could.
Our story began with an online date. I was a 34-year-old, never-married teacher living in central Kansas, with a habit of dating men who simply weren’t right for me. So when Brent messaged me, I assumed he was just another brief stop along the way. He was a recently divorced man from western Kansas with two children under the age of five. But as we kept talking, something unexpected happened—we realized just how much we had in common. It was almost eerie. Our hometowns were strikingly similar, and we even discovered we had been in the same college building, on the same floor, on 9/11. He felt almost too perfect, and I knew there had to be a catch. And there it was: his “volatile” ex-wife.
When I finally met Ashley a few weeks later, “met” might be too generous a word. That first encounter nearly turned into a physical confrontation. From the very beginning, we were on the wrong foot, and our negative patterns quickly took hold. I always prided myself on being level-headed, but looking back, that description didn’t always apply. Things escalated fast—passive-aggressive texts, pointed Facebook posts, even people reporting back to one another. There were heated phone calls, tense meetings, and the kind of anxiety that made me nauseous just thinking about her. We took constant jabs at each other, undermining one another whenever possible. We were both guilty. Respect was replaced with resentment, and hatred seeped into places it never should have been. I’d cry to my husband, “I hate this. I can’t do this anymore.” Being the bigger person felt impossible when we both believed we already were.
This cycle continued for nearly three years—back and forth, again and again. It wasn’t easy, and we certainly weren’t perfect, but we both made a genuine effort not to speak badly about each other in front of the kids. At least, I tried. I’m sure she bit her tongue more times than I’ll ever know. Eventually, we learned a painful truth: our words hurt the children far more than they hurt each other. That lesson came straight from our son when he bravely spoke up. “Mommy and Deanna, I love you both, and it hurts me when you say bad things.” That moment still fills me with shame. For me, the bitterness had become all-consuming, and letting go felt nearly impossible.
Fast forward to today—more than six years after we first met—and our lives look completely different. We exchange gifts for holidays like Mother’s Day, Christmas, and birthdays. We celebrate our kids together, share parties and milestones, and even plan gatherings like Fourth of July barbecues. My husband and I were genuinely happy to attend Ashley and Ross’s wedding last March. I remember Brent joking, “Is it weird to celebrate your ex-wife’s new marriage?” Then shrugging it off with, “Who cares!” Amazingly, we even have family photos scheduled soon—everyone together, blended families and all. I never would have believed this future was possible.
So how did we get here? For me, it began at a women’s church encounter. I prayed desperately for the ability to release the anger and bitterness I carried toward Ashley. Standing at the cross, I asked God for something I couldn’t even fully imagine. “Lord, please help me let go of this hatred. I can’t carry it anymore. It’s killing me from the inside. I know I’m better than this.” I realized that hatred was only making me sick; it was poisoning my own heart far more than it ever affected hers. Unknown to me at the time, Ashley was praying too—asking God to work in her heart about our situation. Neither of us knew the other was seeking the same miracle. She later told me that volunteering to help by watching her other child when she needed it softened something inside her. She recalled looking through photos of our kids and realizing all they truly wanted was for their parents to be happy, no matter the path.
And so, we grew. We matured. Slowly, almost quietly, we transformed from enemies into something closer to sisters. We did it for the kids—but also for ourselves. Today, our children know we are united. They know that what one household says, the other supports. They know they are surrounded by adults who show up for them and for each other. They will be better because of this. They’ve learned that broken families don’t have to stay broken. We are stitched together forever through our children—and now through genuine love and respect. Moms and stepmoms, dads and stepdads, kids and stepkids. The labels don’t matter anymore. We are simply family.
Before writing this, I asked Ashley for permission. I promised to be honest and told her she could read it first. She didn’t hesitate. “Of course! I can’t wait to see the final draft. Honesty is the best thing!” she said.
It wasn’t always like this. But from here on out, it will be. That doesn’t mean we agree on everything—but it does mean we choose to work together to find solutions. As a family. If we can do this, anyone can. We are living proof that miracles still happen. Sometimes, all you have to do is ask.
