not feeding everyone. When I asked her to help cover food costs, she laughed. Soon, my food started disappearing. Meals I prepped with care were eaten by her kids. After too many missing lunches, I bought a mini fridge and locked it. That’s when things exploded. Marcy broke into it and drank a smoothie clearly labeled and packed with dairy—despite being lactose intolerant. The fallout was dramatic. She accused me of poisoning her. I reminded her she’d broken into my fridge and taken what wasn’t hers. When Dad returned,

Marcy tried to twist the story, but this time, I didn’t stay quiet. I laid everything out. Dad listened, and to my surprise, he took my side. He apologized, promised to do better, and made sure I had what I needed. Things didn’t go back to perfect, but they got better. Marcy kept her distance. My mini fridge stayed, the broken lock a quiet reminder of boundaries I had finally learned to defend. One night, Dad sat on my bed and said, “Your mom would’ve been proud. But she would’ve hated that you had to grow up so fast.” “I miss her,” I whispered “Me too, kiddo.” For the first time in a long time, the house felt less heavy. Maybe not healed—but finally, starting to.