I met ‘”Miss Thompson” when I was 4. I’ve always imagined that if I’d met her at a party, we’d have been fast friends. Which is pretty much what happened.

There was a gathering at someone’s apartment, probably one of the gals everyone was trying to fix up with my dad. A little Mexican chair, turquoise and child-sized, sat in a bay window surrounded by plants. I knew, I knew that turquoise chair was for me. That feeling has endured for 60 years.

My father and I were having some sad years around this time, navigating the universe as a melancholy duo. We had our beat: the library, ice cream parlor and “Uncle” Buddy’s liquor store, where my photo was taped to the cash register – a confused baby in yellow Kodachrome.

Estelle up-ended our drab little duet and made us a fancy trio, with long beach days, Billy Wilder movies, Jules Feiffer cartoons and plenty of hugs. She brought Sylvie into my world, a quiet, steady friend who soon became my cousin. She brought quirky, interesting friends and best of all, four babies in quick succession – a real family, and fast.

Estelle taught me the difference between good and great rye bread. That burnt toast is considered a delicacy. And that red and yellow make orange, her favorite color. She made sure I had a “handsome” winter coat, and listened to Pete Seeger and Big Bill Broonzy. She stitched a soft bathrobe for me with a bunny on one collar and kitten on the other. She trumpeted every achievement and minimized every flaw.

I compare being a stepchild to interplanetary travel – navigating two cultures with different rules, habits, and sometimes, different religions. Phrases that are acceptable in one home are frowned upon in the other. Television is allowed here, but not there. The cuisine varies wildly, as do sleeping accommodations – from Estelle’s reassuring hospital corners to the sandy unmade beds of Kennebunkport summers.

Each journey became part of the warp and weft of my life. The back and forth, often by train, wasn’t always pretty. But each journey changed me, its reliable beginning, middle and end increasing my confidence, and as Anthony Bourdain said, “leaving its marks on my heart.”

My travel skills run deep. I can pack a suitcase in four minutes. I can ask for beer, please, in French, Russian, Czech and Italian. I can eat just about anything, including blackened toast, and feel deep appreciation, largely due to Estelle and the accident of our mutual, loving circumstances.

I’m not an advocate of divorce. But I am a huge fan of the woman who eased our journey with her unique combination of grit, patience, compassion and defiance. Who turned our sad little duet into the raucous and hectic symphony that we reveled in over the years.

I never use the word “stepmother” without kindness and respect. Especially on Mother’s Day.

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