Disciplining Amelia was tough, because it made me question my own fairness constantly. I still dread the day when she will inevitably scream in petulant rage, "You’re not my real mum; you can’t tell me what to do!" She has chosen me as her mother, but she can just as easily make the choice that I am not her mother. I hope that this fear of rejection doesn’t govern how I raise her too much. I want to treat her and her brother equally, but I don’t think that’s completely possible all the time.

I delivered my son at home with Amelia there in the early stages, shouting things like, "Why are you in the bath with your bra on?!" She’s constantly interrupting difficult moments like these with hilarious observant comments. Within a few hours, I’d given birth to a screaming boy in the dining room. Amelia’s pride was astounding. She had no fear or doubt about her brother, just total love and ease. This was a turning point for all of us; our family was united.

After his birth, she tentatively started to rename me. "I can call you whatever I like," she’d say as she tested the water. "You certainly can — whatever you’d like," I’d reassure her. Eventually, "Kaf-friend" was a thing of the past (I doubt she remembers now), and instead I’m Mommy or Mom, depending on her mood. I’d lie if I didn’t admit that I beamed when I heard this for the first time.

Amelia is six years old now and more curious by the day. She wasn’t born mine, but she became mine, gently over time, through a series of shared experiences. We have learned so much of what we know about life, family, ourselves, and each other together. Now, we’re inseparable, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.