When I was seven, my mom left without a word no note, no goodbye, just silence. My dad, Richard, did his best to handle things. He was kind but overwhelmed, often relying on frozen dinners and awkward hugs to fill the gaps. He remarried twice after that, and Leslie was the third wife. She moved in when I was fifteen, bringing casseroles, a fake smile, and her son Stuart who was my age but nothing like me.

Leslie never truly fit in. She took control of everything. My clothes became cheaper, my meals smaller. She was sweet when my dad was around but cold once he left. Whenever I spoke up, she twisted the story. “Tom just wants attention,” she’d say. By the time prom rolled around, I was quiet, counting the days until college and freedom. But there was one bright spot Taylor, the girl who passed me notes, smiled genuinely, and said yes when I asked her to prom.

Dad wanted to bond with me, so we went suit shopping. I picked navy; Stuart chose charcoal. It didn’t matter I was just happy to go. But on prom day, I came home to find my suit shredded, cut to pieces. I didn’t need to guess who was behind it. Leslie claimed it was an accident she said she “ran over it with the lawnmower.”

Of course, only my suit was ruined; Stuart’s was untouched. Dad believed her. Again. Determined to prove the truth, I knocked on our neighbor’s door. Mrs. Elizaveta had accidentally recorded everything while filming birds in her yard.