After my mom’s death when I was 11, I started making my own meals, finding peace in the kitchen. I’m Emma, 16, living with my dad, who left lunch money occasionally but mostly left me to manage. Our quiet home changed when my stepmom, Carla, moved in with her three kids, making it loud and messy. She smiled, saying, “Emma, you’re family now,” but meant I should parent her kids. I was busy with school and my grocery store job, so I sidestepped her hints.
Before Dad’s work trip, he said Carla would cover lunch money for two weeks. The next day, I asked, but she barked, “You’re 16. Sort it out.” Her kids ate sugary cereal as she ignored me. I stayed calm, said, “Fine,” and caught the bus. I worked extra hours at the store, my boss, Mr. Diaz, giving me a short shift. I bought groceries—rice, chicken, veggies, and bananas—cooking for myself and eating in my room, avoiding Carla’s gaze as I passed her family’s table.
I set a routine, making simple dinners and smoothies for mornings. One evening, Carla blocked me by the fridge, her tone sharp. “You’re cooking, so make enough for us. It’s selfish not to.” I stared back. “You paying for food?” She laughed, saying my job was enough and her kids were my siblings. “No, they’re not,” I said. “Dad promised help.” She brought up Dad’s disappointment, but I didn’t budge. Soon, my lunch—veggie fried rice—was gone. Her kids ate my baked apples, Carla acting unaware.
I was fed up. I spent my savings on a mini fridge and lock for my room. Carla scoffed, her kids giggling. I filled it with food, including a milk smoothie, clearly labeled. The next morning, my fridge was broken into, the smoothie missing. Carla shouted, doubled over, saying, “You knew I can’t have dairy!” I replied, “I locked my food. You took it.” She raged, calling me heartless, but I said, “Not my problem.” She swore to tell Dad, but I stood ready.
When Dad came home, Carla complained, but I told my side. “She wouldn’t give me money, so I bought my own food. She broke my fridge and stole it.” Dad asked Carla, “True?” She faltered, calling me selfish, but Dad said, “With her money?” I explained the smoothie label, and Dad looked drained. He handled groceries and gave me lunch cash. Carla backed off, and my fridge stayed, its broken lock a symbol. One night, Dad sat with me, saying, “I’m sorry I failed you. Your mom would be proud.” I whispered, “I miss her,” and his hug felt like home. My fight with Carla strengthened our family.
