When I was 14, my mom died just months after she and my dad finalized their divorce. Losing her was the hardest thing I’d ever faced. She was my anchor, the one who made me feel safe even when the world outside was falling apart. After she passed, Dad and I barely knew how to talk to each other. He buried himself in work, and I wandered the house like a ghost.

A year later, Dad remarried. Her name was Karen. She swept into our lives with her sharp perfume, her perfect nails, and her smile that never quite reached her eyes. At first, I tried to accept her. She cooked fancy meals, decorated the living room with new curtains, and pretended like she cared about me. But little things gave her away—the way she rolled her eyes when I mentioned my mom, or how she called the family heirlooms “junk” when she thought I wasn’t listening.By the time I turned 18, the mask slipped completely. On my birthday, when I expected at least a cake or a kind word, she sat me down and dropped her bombshell.

“You need to start paying rent,” she said, arms crossed. “You’ve been spoiled long enough. It’s time to act like an adult and pull your weight around here.”

I just looked at her, trying not to laugh. Rent? In the house that had been my mom’s before it was mine? But I didn’t argue. I smiled, nodded, and kept my mouth shut.