It was supposed to be harmless curiosity. A misplaced book on the coffee table, half-buried under a stack of mail. I picked it up, thinking it was one of my stepmom’s crossword puzzle notebooks. But the second I opened it and saw my name written again and again on the first page, my stomach dropped. The handwriting was hers, and the words inside were never meant for me.
I always believed my stepmom, Carol, cared for me—or at least tolerated me. She married my dad when I was fourteen, two years after my mom passed away. Everyone said she was “good for him,” that she brought life back into our quiet, grieving home. She cooked elaborate dinners, decorated the house for holidays, and smiled when people looked her way. But with me, her smile never reached her eyes.
Still, I told myself I was imagining it. She hugged me on my birthday, remembered my favorite cereal, even drove me to piano lessons. “She loves you, you know,” my dad would say when I asked if she really liked having me around. “She’s just not expressive.” I tried to believe him. I wanted to believe him.
Last week, Carol left her leather-bound journal on the table. I shouldn’t have touched it, but the corner of a photograph peeked out between the pages, and curiosity got the better of me. I slipped it open. The picture was of me at thirteen—skinny, awkward, braces cutting into my smile. Someone had written in ink across the bottom: She’ll never be enough. My throat tightened.
Flipping through the pages, I saw entry after entry, each one a brutal confession. “I can’t stand her laugh.” “She looks too much like her mother—it’s a reminder every day.” “If only she weren’t here, maybe this house could feel like mine.” My chest burned as I read the words, each line slicing deeper than the last.
I shoved the journal shut, but the damage was already done. My stepmom, the woman who told my dad she loved me, who told neighbors I was her daughter—had been writing poison about me for years.
That evening at dinner, I sat across from her, my fork heavy in my hand. She chatted about her day, her bracelets clinking as she gestured. “How was school?” she asked casually, as if she hadn’t carved me open in her private pages. I stared at her, wondering if she could see the rage boiling behind my eyes. “Fine,” I said flatly. She smiled, satisfied.
The next morning, I couldn’t keep it in. I cornered her while Dad was out back mowing the lawn. “I found your journal,” I said, holding her gaze. For a split second, her face went white. Then she laughed, forced and brittle. “You shouldn’t go through people’s things.”
“You wrote about me,” I snapped. “All those things—you hate me.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You were never supposed to see that,” she said quietly. “It was just… venting. That’s what journals are for.”
“Venting?” My voice cracked. “You said I ruin this house. You said you wish I wasn’t here.”
Her eyes flickered, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she sighed, leaning against the counter. “Do you know how hard it is to live with a ghost? You look like her—your mother. Every time I see you, I feel like I’ll never have your father completely. I wanted to. But you… you’re a reminder I can’t erase.”
Her words knocked the air out of me. I wanted to scream, to tell her she was cruel, selfish, wrong. But all I could do was whisper, “I loved you.” And for a flicker of a moment, guilt crossed her face. Then she turned away. “I never asked you to,” she said coldly.
When Dad came back inside, sweaty and smiling, I plastered on a grin. “Everything okay in here?” he asked, looking between us. Carol slipped past me and kissed his cheek. “Of course,” she said sweetly. And just like that, she wore her mask again, leaving me alone with the truth.
That night, I packed the journal into my backpack. I don’t know why—maybe to remind myself I hadn’t imagined it. Maybe to protect myself with proof. I still haven’t told Dad. He looks so happy with her, and part of me can’t bear to rip that away. But every time she smiles at me across the dinner table, I remember the line she wrote in her neat, careful script: If only she weren’t here.
Final Thought
I used to think love was measured in actions—birthday cakes, rides to school, kind words. But now I know some people act out of duty, not love. My stepmom can smile, cook, and play the part, but her truth spilled onto those pages. And mine? Mine is knowing that sometimes the people closest to you don’t love you at all—they just tolerate you until the pen runs dry.
