My dad claimed my stepmother would take care of the lunch money while he was away on business. Marcy yelled instead, “Not my problem.” I had to cook alone after being left on my own until Marcy insisted that I feed the entire family. I declined. and the actual conflict started at that point.
My mother became ill when I was eleven. I started preparing my own school lunches and even simple meals since I wanted to be helpful..
I continued to prepare, cook, and shop by myself after she died..
It became the usual for me. My peaceful haven was the kitchen, the only room in the house where I could still feel the warmth of her memories rather than their sorrow..
At first, Dad tried.
Some mornings, he would leave his lunch money on the counter, usually with the words “For lunch” written in his hurried handwriting on a Post-it note. I adore you.
I made it work on my own, though, for the most part.
I used sticky notes to write grocery lists. I made it through mornings of burnt toast and disasters involving bolognese sauce. Like a nicely boiled egg, I rejoiced in little triumphs.
Years went by in this manner.
In our too-quiet home, it was just Dad and I, each of us lugging grief like an unstoppable load. Dad would get us takeaway, or I would prepare what I could, learning new recipes as I went.
Then Marcy showed up.
She treated her marriage to Dad as though she had won something, all brittle smiles and bright lipstick. Her three children converted our sombre home into a veritable hotbed of mayhem.
“You’re the oldest now, Kayla. One morning, as she hurried around the kitchen, Marcy chirped, “You’re part of the team,” her voice sugar-coated with a nasty aftertaste.
Emma, five, was complaining that she needed new shoes while Zach, seven, was spreading peanut butter all over the counter.
“Part of the team” signified something I understood. It was code for, “Start mothering my kids.” It wasn’t a praise.
“I’ve got homework,” I responded, reaching for my rucksack. “And I work after school.”
Marcy’s grin grew strained. “Well, we all have responsibilities now.”
With more weight than normal in my chest, I nodded and walked away.
Dad discovered me studying in my bedroom the night before his work trip. He rested his weight on the door frame.
“It’s just for two weeks,” he stated. “Marcy has things under control. She’ll pay for your lunch.
I allowed myself to believe it for a second.
“Okay,” I murmured, raising my head from my bible. “Thanks, Dad.”
He gave me a clumsy shoulder pat, and I smelt his new cologne that Marcy had purchased for him. Not at all like the Old Spice he wore before.
I discovered Marcy at the kitchen table the morning after Dad left, tapping on her phone as her children ate sugary porridge.
“Dad said you’d give me lunch money,” I replied.
Marcy’s face twisted as if I had offended her as she looked up.
“You’re 16,” she impatiently said. “Not my problem.”
The kitchen froze. After that, even the hum of the refrigerator became more audible.
“But Dad said—”
“Your father leaves me with enough to worry about.” She pointed to her children. “You’ve been taking good care of yourself. Don’t act like he’s gone all of a sudden.
I felt a frigid, but not loud, rage coil in my chest. measured. For five long seconds, I stood there, allowing the sensation to solidify into something useful.
I took on an additional shift at my part-time job at the bookshop that evening. When I asked, my supervisor, Mr. Geller, arched his brows.
“School night,” he said.
“I understand. I require the hours.
He looked at my face.
Even though Mr. Geller never enquired about personal matters, there were moments when I thought he could read my mind.
“Four hours,” at last he said. “Not a minute more.”
I went grocery shopping the following day. I bought chicken breasts, rice, veggies, apples, and yoghurt using $37 of my own money.
When I got home, I marinated the chicken the way Mom used to, using lemon and spices.
I ate by myself in my room that night, a dish of warm food that was purposeful, filling, and almost sacred. I felt Marcy’s eyes following me up the stairs, but I didn’t look at the family table as I passed it.
After work, I would prepare a modest yet delicious meal and then retire to my room.
I used to prepare smoothies once a week and portion them out for easy breakfasts. I even prepared a few easy sweets.
Marcy cornered me outside the pantry one evening, her phoney curiosity pierced like a blade.
“If you’re cooking anyway, you might as well make enough for all of us,” she replied. “It’s selfish not to.”
Stable, I looked into her eyes. “Are you going to give me money for groceries then?”
Marcy sneered, as if being kind was beneath her.
“That small job pays plenty for you. Now this is your family. You need to assist out with your siblings and act more responsibly.
With my jaw clenched, I took one breath. “No, it’s not, and your children aren’t my siblings.”
She squinted.
“Your father would be disappointed to see how you’re acting.”
“My father told me you’d give me lunch money,” I responded. “I guess we’re both disappointed.”
When I opened the refrigerator the following morning, I found that the container of rice and chicken I had made for lunch was gone.
The whole batch of fried apples I made vanished later that week. Next came the protein bars I had purchased.
I found the criminals without much searching.
At the table, Marcy’s children were all consuming toaster waffles with MY fried apples on top. Marcy acted as though she didn’t see me staring.
I paid $89.99 for the little fridge, which is about a week’s salary. It cost an additional $12 for the lock. On Saturday morning, while Marcy was taking her children to football practice, I set up both in my bedroom.
Marcy laughed in my face when they got back. “Really? A refrigerator that’s locked? You’re exaggerating.”
I didn’t cringe, but her children did. I had everything figured out, and this was only the first step.
That evening, I filled my refrigerator. Additionally, I created a unique smoothie with protein powder, yoghurt, and whole milk. I put it on the top shelf with a clear label.
My little refrigerator was smashed open when I woke up the following morning, with the lock hanging pointlessly. The smoothie had vanished.
Then I heard my name being yelled by Marcy.
She was pallid and hunched over on the couch when I found her, her lips clenched in agony.
When she saw me, she yelled, “What the hell did you do?”
A serene shadow in the morning light, I stood in the doorway. “You stole my food after breaking into my refrigerator. What you decide to eat is not my responsibility.”
She yelled, “You knew I’m lactose intolerant!” “You did this on purpose!”
Her children were quiet and wide-eyed as they snuggled in the corner of the living room.
When I said, “I labelled my food,” “I secured it. To get to it, you had to break something.
Marcy screamed, calling me callous, repulsive, and cruel.
She said, “This is it, Kayla!” “I’m going to tell your father everything and make sure you’re punished for your selfish behaviour!”
However, my voice stayed silent, deadly: “I’m only a child. Remember, it’s not my problem.”
When her own words returned to her, her face froze and recognition set in.
She spat out, “Get out,” “I can’t even look at you.”
With a shrug, I walked away, feeling less burdened than I have in weeks.
Marcy tried to explain what had happened to Dad when he got back. However, I spoke up for the first time.
Calmly, “She broke the lock on my mini fridge,” I said. “The one I bought with my own money to keep the groceries I buy with my pay cheque.”
Dad’s face was clouded by bewilderment as he glanced between us. “Why do you need a locked fridge?”
“Because when you left, she refused to give me lunch money,” I replied. “I therefore purchased my own food. After that, she and the children began to take it.
Dad’s face changed expression. He looked at Marcy. “Is that true?”
Marcy reddened. “She is sixteen, not six! Additionally, she was cooking only for herself out of selfishness.
Dad said, “With her own money,” softly. “After you refused to help her.”
“She poisoned me!”
The words “I labelled my food,” I said again. “You stole my refrigerator after breaking in. I’m not to blame.
There was silence in the living room. Dad looked older than his forty-three years as he rubbed his face with his hands.
He said, “We need to fix this,” at last.
After that, things were different.
Dad took up grocery shopping once more. He provided me with a suitable lunch allowance. Marcy continued to glare occasionally, but she avoided close contact.
Even though I hardly ever locked it anymore, the small refrigerator was still in my room.
Like a war scar, the broken lock hung there as a reminder.
Dad knocked on my door one evening. His hands were folded between his knees as he perched on the edge of my bed.
His words were, “I’m sorry,” “I should have been paying attention.”
Unconfident in my voice, I nodded.
“Your mum would’ve been proud, you know,” he added. “How you have looked after yourselves. But the fact that you had to would have annoyed her.
A wall I had constructed years before began to fracture inside of me.
“I miss her,” I said in a whisper.
Dad’s flannel shirt was silky against my cheek as he pulled me into an embrace.
“Me too, kiddo.”
For a while, the house was silent as we sat in that position. Something softer than the emptiness of the previous silence. Something restorative.
