When we think of “mother,” we often conjure a soft image: warm hugs, fresh cookies, unconditional love. But real motherhood—like the women who embody it—rarely fits neatly into such comforting boxes. As a storyteller, I’ve long been drawn to the women who defy expectations, who mother not only through nurture but through grit, style, rebellion, and complexity.
In my debut novel, Masque of Honor, one of the most beloved characters isn’t a romantic lead or a war hero—but Sally McCarty, a woman who raised her boys with boldness and flair. Sally was widowed young and faced life’s hardships with unflinching confidence. She insisted her sons call her “Sally,” not “Mom”—a choice that spoke volumes about the role she intended to play in their lives. She wasn’t there simply to comfort them. She was their strategist, their emotional equal, their inspiration.
Sally reminded me so much of a woman who shaped me personally: Jeri May, the mother of my childhood best friend. Jeri May wasn’t my mother, but in so many ways, she was a mother to me. Her door was always open, her advice always firm, and her belief in me never wavered. She helped me believe in the possibility of becoming who I am today. And perhaps that’s what makes a mother—someone who helps shape your identity, no matter her biological or legal ties to you.
But not all mothers are nurturing. Some, in fact, stretch the very definition of motherhood. In Veil of Doubt, Emily Lloyd is the embodiment of the dark side of motherhood—or perhaps, the absence of it. Accused of the unthinkable—murdering her own children—Emily is complex and enigmatic. Did she do it? I won’t spoil the book. But I will say this: motherhood doesn’t automatically bestow selflessness.
Emily challenges the societal assumption that women are naturally maternal, and that all mothers put their children first. Her character, though painful to explore, was essential to write. Because some of the most compelling stories—and real-life conversations—live in the tension between what we expect and what we get.
In my most recent book, The Grays of Truth, we return to more traditional portrayals of mothers. Jane Gray though complicated by history and circumstance, is maternal in her devotion. Achsha, is steady and compassionate. Even Ellen, acts out of protective love. They’re women who mother in the way many expect—through loyalty, sacrifice, and steadiness. And there is power in that too.
Conventional motherhood is not lesser. It is simply one of many shapes a mother can take.
So why write about unconventional mothers? Because they exist. Because they matter. Because they raise children who see the world differently. Because they show us that love doesn’t always look like fairy tales. It might look like independence. Like unwavering guidance. Like calling your mother by her first name. Or like a woman who steps in when your own mother can’t.
This Mother’s Day, I paid tribute to the women who mother without titles, the ones who don’t make cookies but do make space for hard conversations. The ones who teach us to think boldly, live loudly, and love fiercely, even if that love doesn’t always come wrapped in softness.
To Sally. To Jeri May. To the complicated Emilys. And to every woman who ever loved a child—whether she birthed them or simply believed in them—I honor you.
You are the heart of the story.
