In my earliest memory is of my late stepmother Jocelyne. I was very young at the time, maybe four or five years old. My dad was a sawmill foreman and was working the graveyard shift when one night, I woke from a nightmare and went barreling into the living room of our house on the farm, looking for comfort. My father wasn’t there. My mother wasn’t there. But Jocelyne was.
In my fear and half-asleep upset, it wasn’t my father I was longing for, it was my mother. I remember climbing into Jocelyne’s lap and crying for my mommy. I wept like I’d never see her again. And while I wailed and lamented my loneliness, Jocelyne crooned and rocked another woman’s child until she felt comforted and loved.
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