When my dad left for a two-week work trip, he reassured me that my stepmom, Marcy, would take care of my lunch money. But the next morning, when I asked her, she snapped, “Not my problem.” Those words hit me hard. I was sixteen, but I’d been cooking for myself since I was eleven, after my mom passed away. Back then, it was just Dad and me, quietly navigating our grief. The kitchen became my refuge, a place where I could make simple meals while the house felt heavy and still.
Dad tried to help, but life kept moving. Then came Marcy — bright lipstick, constant smiles, and three boisterous kids. She made it clear I was now “part of the team,” which really meant taking on duties she didn’t want to handle. Between my job, homework, and unresolved grief, suddenly acting as a stand-in parent wasn’t in my plan.
After Marcy refused to cover my lunch money, I started using my own paycheck to buy groceries. I cooked only for myself and kept to my room, which only fueled her resentment. She began calling me selfish for…