You know that feeling when someone walks all over you? I’m Diana, and I spent three months being treated like a maid in my own home. My adult stepdaughter dumped trash around my house and acted like I was born to serve her.
I made sure she learned patience and kindness have limitations.
My husband Tom and I built something beautiful together over 10 years — a cozy home on Redwood Lane, where laughter echoed through the hallways and Sunday mornings meant pancakes and crossword puzzles. My son Rick, from my first marriage, was thriving in college.
And Tom’s daughter Kayla, 22, from his previous one, well… she existed on the periphery of our world.
I tried, God knows I’d tried.
Birthday cards with heartfelt messages, invitations to girls’ nights that went unanswered. And gentle questions about her dreams that were met with shrugs. Kayla wasn’t cruel.
She was worse and indifferent…
like I was some cheap wallpaper she’d learned to ignore. But when she called Tom that rainy Tuesday evening, her voice thick with tears, and asked if she could come home “just for a little while,” my heart cracked open.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Tom said, not even looking at me for confirmation. “You’ll always have a place here.”
I squeezed his hand and smiled.
What else could I do?
Kayla arrived three days later like a hurricane in designer boots, armed with three suitcases, two tote bags, and a duffel that looked like it could house a small family. She breezed past me with barely a nod and claimed our guest room, the one I’d carefully decorated with soft blues and fresh flowers. “This’ll work,” she announced, dropping her bags with thuds that shook the picture frames.
“Welcome home, honey!” I said, hovering in the doorway.
“I made your favorite casserole for dinner.”
She glanced up from her phone. “Oh, I already ate.
But thanks.”
Her share of the casserole sat untouched in the fridge for a week before I finally threw it out, my hands shaking with disappointment. The first signs appeared within days.
Kayla abandoned a cereal bowl on the coffee table, milk forming a film on the surface.
Her makeup wipes lay scattered around the bathroom sink like confetti after a sad party. I found myself following her trail, picking up the pieces of her life she’d carelessly dropped. “Kayla, sweetie,” I said gently one morning, holding up an empty water bottle I’d found wedged between the couch cushions.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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