I was 11 when my mom got sick. To help out, I started making my own lunches and cooking simple meals. After she passed, the kitchen became my safe space—a place where her memory felt warm.
Dad tried in his way. Sometimes he’d leave lunch money and a Post-it: Love you. But mostly, I figured things out on my own.
Years passed. Then came Marcy, with her brittle smiles and three noisy kids. “You’re part of the team now,” she told me. I knew what that meant—be their babysitter, their cook.
When Dad left on a work trip, he said Marcy would give me lunch money. She didn’t. “Not my problem,” she snapped.
So I picked up extra shifts, bought my own groceries, cooked my meals, and kept to myself. When Marcy’s kids started eating my food, I bought a mini fridge and locked it.
Then one day, my special smoothie disappeared. Marcy had broken into the fridge—and landed sick. “You knew I’m lactose intolerant!” she yelled.
“You broke the lock,” I replied. “You stole my food.”
When Dad got back, I told him everything. Marcy called me selfish. He saw through it.
Things changed. Dad handled groceries again. I got a proper allowance. Marcy backed off. The fridge stayed in my room—lock hanging like a battle scar.
One night, Dad sat on my bed. “Your mom would’ve been proud. But she would’ve hated that you had to grow up so fast.”
“I miss her,” I whispered.
“Me too, kiddo,” he said. And for the first time, the quiet in the house felt healing.
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