When my dad left for a two-week work trip, he said my stepmom Marcy would handle my lunch money. But when I asked her, she snapped, “Not my problem.”

I was sixteen and had been cooking for myself since I was eleven, after my mom died. It had always been just Dad and me, quietly getting by. Then Marcy

moved in—with loud kids and louder expectations. Suddenly, I was picking up chores she avoided, all while juggling school, work, and grief.

After she refused to help with food, I used my own money and cooked just for myself. That sparked tension. She called me selfish, and her kids started

eating my meals. I got a mini fridge and locked it—until Marcy broke in, drank a dairy smoothie, and blamed me for getting sick. When Dad came home,

she twisted the story, but I finally stood up for myself. To my surprise, Dad believed me. He apologized and promised to do better.

Things weren’t perfect, but they improved. The mini fridge stayed, a symbol of the boundaries I learned to protect. One night, Dad said,

“Your mom would’ve been proud. But she’d hate that you had to grow up so fast.” “I miss her,” I whispered.

“Me too,” he said. For the first time in years, the house felt a little lighter.