When I was seven, my mom left. No note, no goodbye — just silence. My dad, Richard, tried his best. He was kind but overwhelmed, filling the gaps with frozen dinners and awkward hugs.He remarried a year later, then again. Leslie was the third. She moved in when I was fifteen, bringing casseroles, a fake smile, and her son Stuart — my age, but nothing like me.Leslie didn’t blend in. She took over. My clothes got cheaper, my meals smaller.
She was sweet in front of my dad, cold when he left. Every time I spoke up, she twisted the story. “Tom just wants attention.”By the time prom came around, I was quiet, waiting for college and freedom. But I was excited — not for the dance, but for Taylor. The girl who passed me notes, smiled with her whole face, and said yes when I asked her.
Dad wanted to bond, so we went suit shopping. I chose navy. Stuart picked charcoal. It didn’t matter. I was happy just to go.Until I came home prom day and found my suit in pieces. Cut. Destroyed. I didn’t need to guess who did it.Leslie claimed it was an accident — she “ran over it with the lawnmower.”
Just mine, of course. Stuart’s was perfectly fine. Dad believed her. Again.But then I knocked on our neighbor’s door.Mrs. Elizaveta had filmed everything by accident while recording birds.
