My stepmom “accidentally” smashed my laptop, which contained my entire bachelor’s thesis, 24 hours before my defense. She smirked as she said, “Oops.” The next morning, the dean arrived at our door, and her face turned white.
My mom died when I was fourteen.
People always say grief comes in waves, but for me, it felt more like a door closing behind me. One day, I had a mother who smelled like vanilla lotion and sang off-key while making pancakes. The next, I had silence at the dinner table and a father who didn’t know how to look at me without looking broken.
Two years later, he married Karen.
She came into our house with pearl earrings, soft sweaters, and a voice so sweet it made strangers trust her immediately. At first, I tried. I really did. I wanted peace. I wanted my dad to be happy again. I wanted to believe that maybe a new person in the house did not mean I was being replaced.
But Karen never hurt me loudly.
She did it in ways no one else noticed.
My dinner was “accidentally” forgotten. My scholarship letters disappeared from the mailbox. My laundry was moved while still wet so it smelled sour by morning. She smiled at my dad and called me “sensitive” whenever I reacted.
So I learned to become quiet.
