I was 11 when my mom got sick, so I started making my own lunches to help her. After she died, I kept cooking, finding peace in the kitchen. I’m Mia, 16, living with my dad, who left lunch money sometimes but mostly left me to manage. Our quiet life shifted when my stepmom, Tara, moved in with her three kids, turning our home into a zoo. She flashed fake smiles, saying, “Mia, you’re the big sister now,” but meant I should babysit her kids. I was busy with school and my diner job, so I brushed her off.
Before Dad’s work trip, he said Tara would cover lunch money for two weeks. The next day, I asked, but she scoffed, “You’re 16. Deal with it.” Her kids ate sugary cereal as she ignored me. I swallowed my anger, said, “Fine,” and caught the bus. That night, I worked extra hours at the diner, my boss, Mr. Lee, giving me a short shift. I spent my tips on groceries—rice, eggs, veggies, and apples—cooking for myself and eating in my room, steering clear of Tara’s watchful eyes.
I settled into a pattern, whipping up simple dinners and prepping smoothies for mornings. One evening, Tara stopped me by the stove, her tone fake-sweet. “You’re cooking, so make enough for us. It’s unfair not to.” I stared back. “You paying for food?” She smirked, saying my job was enough and her kids were family. “No, they’re not,” I said. “Dad promised lunch money.” She brought up Dad’s disappointment, but I stood firm. Soon, my packed lunch—egg fried rice—was gone. Her kids ate my caramelized apples, Tara acting oblivious.
I was done. I bought a mini fridge and lock with my savings, setting it up in my room. Tara laughed, calling me dramatic, her kids giggling. I filled it with food, including a milk-based smoothie, labeled clearly. The next morning, my fridge was broken into, the smoothie gone. Tara yelled, doubled over, gasping, “You knew I can’t have dairy!” I stayed calm. “I locked my food. You took it.” She raged, calling me heartless, but I threw back, “Not my problem.” She vowed to tell Dad, but I was ready.
When Dad came back, Tara complained, but I told my side. “She wouldn’t give me money, so I bought my own food. She broke my fridge and stole it.” Dad frowned, asking Tara, “True?” She stumbled, saying I was selfish, but Dad countered, “With her money?” I explained the labeled smoothie, and Dad looked worn out. He started buying groceries and gave me lunch cash. Tara backed off, and my fridge stayed, its broken lock like a trophy. One night, Dad visited my room, saying, “I’m sorry I let you down. Your mom would be proud.” I whispered, “I miss her,” and his hug felt like home. My stand against Tara made our house ours again.
