It all started with a dull throb in my head that escalated into a sharp pain radiating through the side of my skull. No amount of painkillers or sleep could ease it.
I found myself seated across from Dr. Taylor in his plush office. He wore a sympathetic expression—one reminiscent of the look my mom had given me when she broke the news about my childhood pet’s passing. “I’m afraid both teeth need root canals. We can start phase one today,” he informed me.
“Do it,” I responded, bracing myself.
As Dr. Taylor numbed my gums with Novocain, tears filled my eyes. Sure, the thought of the hefty bill was disheartening, but what truly upset me was the loss of two more teeth—the essence of my smile. Having gone through root canals before, including one in Italy sans anesthesia, I was all too familiar with the procedure. The infection lurking in the roots meant he would be extracting all living tissue—nerves and blood supply—leaving just the outer shells, reinforced with dental filler. My teeth would continue to function, but they’d essentially be lifeless. This felt like a stark metaphor for another uprooting in my life.
Just five months prior, I had left my life in Philadelphia to be with Jack, my boyfriend who works as a cinematographer, in Los Angeles. We had crossed paths on a TV show and sparks had flown. For him, I had given up 33 years’ worth of deep-rooted relationships. I often wondered if this move would drain the vibrancy of those connections, turning them into mere shadows of their former selves, much like the enamel left on my teeth.
Although Jack didn’t inherit my dental misfortune, he understood the importance of being rooted, perhaps in ways I had yet to grasp.
During one of Jack’s trips to Philadelphia, his phone buzzed with a message from his ex. “Feeling nostalgic,” she wrote, sharing pictures of their kids. A wave of jealousy washed over me, but I fought to suppress it. Instead, I focused on the images.
In one photo, Jack’s three children were in their pajamas, surrounded by unopened gifts beneath a Christmas tree. In that moment, I saw the eldest girl with her glossy black hair cascading over one shoulder, while her younger sister sported two curly ponytails. A toddler, beaming with joy, perched between them. All three kids were grinning, showcasing their smiles.
For the first three years of our long-distance relationship, it had been a clear divide: us (Jack and me) versus them (Jack, his ex, and their kids). Even after I relocated to L.A., the barrier persisted. Jack’s ex hadn’t fully accepted me yet, and their daughters, aged 13 and 14, were hesitant to meet me.
Jack continued to be an amazing father, coaching his son’s soccer games and juggling school drop-offs while I found solace in my own space, wondering how long it would take for the kids to see me as part of their lives.
Then came the call. It was Mia, Jack’s oldest daughter. We were driving home from a local festival when I heard her voice tremble over the phone. “Dad, can you come get me? It’s too scary here.” I had my worries about her reaction to me being in the car, but she climbed in without hesitation and was unexpectedly polite.
The following day, when Jack mentioned to Mia that he wouldn’t push for us to meet, she replied, “It’s hard to keep disliking someone who’s so nice.” From that point on, all three kids were eager to come over for dinner and spend time with us, and I could feel our roots intertwining.
Who were these three little beings who were suddenly an integral part of my life? What were their quirks, their aspirations, their fears? I was about to find out.
When I learned their mother would be out of town for a month and they’d be staying with us, anxiety kicked in. This was a first. Jack would be working long hours on set and wouldn’t be home until after bedtime. I worried about balancing my work with caring for them. How would I manage to prepare meals that would satisfy all three? What if the eldest, who excelled at math, needed help with her homework? What if they all required my attention at once? And what if, after all this time together, they decided I wasn’t what they thought I was?
I was particularly anxious about my recovery from my root canal procedures. After the first phase, even the slightest movement sent waves of discomfort through me. Jack reassured me repeatedly, saying his kids were self-reliant, but I felt guilty at the thought of retreating to bed while they needed me.
When I finally emerged from the second round of root canals, the sun was shining brightly. My face was numb from the anesthesia, and I struggled to read my phone. It was 5 p.m. and Jack had texted, “Call me when you’re done. The kids are waiting for you.”
I dialed him, and he picked up immediately. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Okay. Turns out my roots are wickedly curved,” I said with a hint of humor.
“I love your wickedly curved roots. I’ll be home soon. Let the kids help you,” he replied.
As I entered the house, I noticed Jack’s daughters staring at my swollen face, concern etched on their features. Mia showed me the cheeseburgers she’d made using Jack’s recipe. She even asked if I wanted ketchup.
The youngest, Leo, motioned for me to bend down so he could kiss my sore cheek. I felt a pang of guilt about letting Jack’s 14-year-old take charge in the kitchen, but I sensed her pride and understood Jack’s encouragement to let the kids step up sometimes.
“Want to watch a movie?” Mia asked.
We settled onto the couch, with Mia selecting My Neighbor Totoro, a delightful animated film where a little girl befriends the spirit of the forest through the strong roots of ancient trees.
By the time the credits rolled, Leo had fallen asleep on me, reminiscent of Mei resting on Totoro.
“I can put him to bed,” Mia offered.
“I’ve got this. Thanks for dinner,” I replied, attempting to lift the tall 7-year-old.
As we headed to his room, Leo nestled his head against my chest and whispered, “I love you.” My heart soared. I hadn’t yet said “I love you” to Jack’s kids, fearing it might overwhelm them.
As Leo’s breaths steadied, I reflected on how we were nurturing new roots together. Mia shared her passion for singing, sending me YouTube links for songs to learn on the piano. Annabelle asked me to review her essay, and Leo and I played Super Mario World together, recalling words from the books we read. Our family was evolving.
There are roots that will never return, like those vital to our teeth. Some roots are far-reaching, connecting me to my past. But new roots can grow strong and resilient too.
Hearing Jack arrive home, I caught laughter from the girls. When the door creaked open, Leo tightened his grip on my hand. Jack joined us, and as my affection for his children deepens, I realize it’s a glimpse of what he feels for them. Their roots run deep, extending far beneath the surface.
Even though my roots are fresh, they are genuine and courageous. I can feel them intertwining with each other.
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Summary:
Navigating the complexities of blending families can be challenging yet rewarding. As I face personal struggles, from dental procedures to building relationships with my partner’s children, I discover new roots forming. Together, we learn, play, and grow, intertwining our lives and creating connections that are both meaningful and deep.