When my dad left on a two-week work trip, he told me not to worry—my stepmom Marcy would handle my lunch money. But when I asked her the next morning, she snapped, “Not my problem.” That sentence stuck with me. I was sixteen, but I’d been cooking for myself since I was eleven, after my mom passed away. Back then, it was just me and Dad, quietly surviving grief. I found comfort in the kitchen, learning to make simple meals while the house stayed quiet and heavy. Dad tried, but life moved on. Then came Marcy—bright lipstick, forced smiles,

and three loud kids. She made it clear that I was now “part of the team,” which really meant picking up responsibilities she didn’t want. I had a job, homework, and grief that hadn’t gone away. Being a stand-in parent wasn’t part of my plan. After Marcy refused to help with lunch money, I started using my own paycheck to buy groceries. I cooked just for myself and kept to my room, which sparked more resentment. Marcy called me selfish for,