Life changed completely when my dad married Marcy. After losing my mom years earlier, I’d learned to take care of myself – cooking meals, packing lunches, managing groceries. The kitchen was my sanctuary, the one place where I still felt connected to my mother. But Marcy saw my independence differently – as an opportunity.
The trouble started when dad left for a business trip. “Marcy will handle your lunch money,” he promised. The next morning, she looked up from her phone with icy dismissal: “You’re sixteen. Not my problem.” That’s when I realized I was on my own.
I started using my bookstore earnings to buy groceries, preparing simple meals just for myself. Marcy watched silently as I carried plates upstairs each night. Then came the demand: “If you’re cooking anyway, make enough for all of us.” Her audacity stunned me. “Your kids aren’t my responsibility,” I replied.
The food theft started soon after – my prepared meals disappearing from the fridge. I found her children eating my carefully made fried apples like it was nothing. That’s when I bought the mini fridge with a lock. When Marcy broke in anyway and drank my clearly labeled protein smoothie (knowing she’s lactose intolerant), her dramatic reaction backfired spectacularly when dad returned.
Seeing the broken lock, hearing the truth about the stolen food – something finally clicked for my father. The apology that came later, as we sat remembering mom together, began healing wounds we’d both ignored for too long.
