Hello! My name is… You know what, let’s keep this anonymous! And I am a stepdaughter.
It all started a few years ago when my mother started dating… Lets call him Dan.
A few things you should know about my mother:
1. She is the best human alive.
2. She is my favourite human.
3. She is better than your mother.
4. She’s in her fifties but thats only what her birth certificate says. She could easily pass for her fourties.
5. This is probably because she it a fitness freak who even goes to gym every morning, even in the middle of winter when the frost has covered her windshield and the birds aren’t even awake yet. The hadedas probably find HER annoying.
6. She is kind and bright and loving.
7. She sends people tons of emojis in her messages. For a long time this included the eggplant emoji, because she didn’t know what it meant. “Hey girl, whats for dinner? *cheeky grin* *eggplant*” *me sinking into the ground with embarrassment*.
8. She is hotter than your mom.
Anyway. My mother and father divorced many years ago, and she has been alone ever since. She is probably the bravest person I have ever known for facing that. Two growing, pubescent, volatile teenage daughters at her heels constantly asking for something; and she had the guts to take her life back. She knew that she would have to provide for us and that she would struggle. And that we did.
Sorry I’m digressing.
My mother met Dan sometime during this time. First impression notes about Dan:
1. Devotely Christian.
2. Always fetched her from places and brought her back home safely.
3. Not secret mistresses (my mom found a bunch of guys with these before).
4. A widower.
Man he seems alright hey?? What is wrong with a guy like that?
WELL THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED. THEY DECIDED TO GET MARRIED AND RUIN EVERYTHING.
About a year and a half into the relationship, we had a small wedding in the garden. I had a wonderful speech that spoke about love and gentleness and how nobody was good enough for my mother. I was right all along.
Soforwith begins the tales of being a stepdaughter…
We moved from our crappy house in the middle of some dodgy neighborhood to a wonderfully quaint estate in a much more respected part of town. Everything seemed fine. Until the crazy began to seep out slowly but surely. It all began one night when we were discussing new rules as a family. My sister and I like to lock our bedroom doors. Especially at night. Last year we were victim to two robberies and for one of them, my sister was safely locked in her room. My mother was tied up and threatened at knife point.
So we lock our doors. We call our old neighborhood the ‘ghetto’. To us, it was. It was out little ghetto neighborhood full of friendly neighbors, high fences and unpredictability. Will Chris finally take his bin inside? Will that neighbor find his lost dog? Will I be stabbed brutally to death? Who knows?
We have a saying in our house that you can take us out of the ghetto but you can’t take the ghetto out of us. When we relayed this information to the new member of the household, we were told that locking doors will not be permitted. My sister and I squinted at him, holding in laughter, until she finally said, “how are you going to stop us?” and we laughed, half out of comedy and half out of truth.
“I will take the locks out of your doors.” He grinned. We laughed but he did not. All he said before turning on his heel and leaving was, “Try me, I will.” And we knew there was something unnatural about him… Something strange…
Yeah he’s a crazy person.