This morning, Isaiah and I were the only two awake at the crack of "why-am-I-up-this-early." He came bouncing down the stairs like a caffeinated squirrel—because of course he did—and without even saying good morning, hit me with:
“Liz, I have a question.”
Which, let’s be honest, is how most of my best therapy sessions have started.
So I shot back, “Well, I have an answer.”
He looks at me and goes, “Am I your stepson?”
And I paused. Because HOW do you explain the complexities of modern family structures before coffee? This kid has asked this in about five different ways over the years—like he’s trying to crack the case on his own ancestry.com file. And every time, I think he’s getting closer to realizing that families are not IKEA furniture—you don’t just follow the instructions and wind up with a perfect set.
I said, “Are you asking literally or emotionally?”
He blinked at me. “No, I know I am.”
Ah. So it’s not an identity crisis. It’s a label crisis.
So I went the technical route: “Well, a stepson usually means someone marries your dad and then—BOOM—you come with the package. But you and I? We didn’t do it that way. We just showed up in each other’s lives and decided to stay. So you’re my bonus son.”
He didn’t blink. Not impressed. He wanted real stakes. Not the Disney Channel version of blended family rhetoric.
So I shifted gears.
“You remember when I told you that you’re welcome here anytime?”
He nodded..
“That’s what you are to me. Not everyone gets that invitation. But you have a place here. Always.”
Still not satisfied. This boy wanted proof. And then he hit me with it:
“I don’t have a key.”
Touché.
“Fine,” I said, “Problem solved. Here’s my front door code. You officially have access.” And his whole face lit up like I'd handed him the deed to the house. He smiled the kind of smile that tells you he got it—not just the words, but the meaning.
Then, as fast as the conversation began, we were back to normal.
“Where’s your iPad?”
Not even “can I use it?” Just a bold declaration of intent. This is how you know someone really feels at home—they don’t ask for your things. They just start looking for them.
And I thought: Maybe that’s the real question we’re all asking. Not “What am I to you?” but “Do I have the code?”
Labels are nice, sure. But knowing you have access—knowing you’re welcome—that’s the stuff that sticks.
So maybe the question for all of us isn’t just who do we let in—but how do they know they belong?
Do the people who matter most in your life know they have the code?
Not just to your house, but to your time, your trust, your Tuesday afternoons and your tired end-of-the-day attention?
Because access is more than a key or a code. It’s presence. It’s invitation. It’s making sure the people we love don’t have to wonder where they stand.
Maybe today’s the day to make that a little clearer.
