I became self-sufficient at eleven when mom got sick. By sixteen, cooking was second nature – my way of honoring her memory. But my stepmother Marcy viewed my kitchen skills as a free catering service she could demand at will.
Dad’s business trip revealed her true intentions. Despite his assurance she’d provide lunch money, Marcy refused with a cruel “not my problem.” So I adapted – working extra shifts, buying my own groceries, cooking just enough for one.
Her entitlement knew no bounds. “It’s selfish not to cook for everyone,” she accused, as if her three children were suddenly my responsibility. When reasoning failed, she simply stole my food instead. Finding her kids eating my carefully prepared meals was the last straw.
The locked mini fridge in my bedroom became the battlefield. Marcy actually broke the lock to take my lactose-heavy smoothie, then screamed about being poisoned when she got sick. The irony wasn’t lost on dad when he returned to find his wife had literally broken into my property to steal food she’d refused to provide money for.
That broken lock still hangs on my fridge as a reminder – sometimes setting boundaries means protecting what’s yours, even if others call you selfish for it.
