Chapter 2: The Stepmom's Rules

Dad’s voice was gentle, but there was a finality to it. Like he was laying down a new law in our house.

"Jamie, from now on you have to listen to Dad and Mom. Our family of three will be happy together!"

Linda looked at Dad with such tenderness. That look—I’ll never forget it. Her fingers squeezed his hand, her eyes shining with hope and fear and something fierce. It was the first time I realized adults had dreams for families, too.

It seemed this stepmom was here to stay.

My heart dropped. There was no more waiting for her to leave, no more hoping things would go back to the way they were.

Since I was little, every Disney movie told me stepmoms were evil. They either abused the kids or treated them like dirt.

I thought of Cinderella, of Snow White’s poisoned apple, of all those wicked stepmothers sending kids to the attic. I looked at Linda and wondered if she’d ever seen those movies.

Seeing Dad’s hand on Linda’s shoulder broke my heart.

That small gesture—so normal, so loving—felt like a punch to the gut. Dad had moved on, and I was the one stuck in the past.

I don’t know where the strength came from, but I stood up, hands shaking, and flipped the table.

Crash!

Dishes shattered on the floor. Dad and Linda both froze, eyes wide in shock.

The crash echoed through the house, louder than fireworks. For a second, nobody moved. I saw gravy dripping off the edge of the table, mac and cheese splattered everywhere.

"Jamie, what the hell are you doing!"

Dad’s voice was sharp, more shocked than angry.

"I don’t want to eat food made by a stepmom. She’ll poison me! You bad woman, get out! Get out!"

I lunged at Linda, grabbing her shirt splattered with gravy, trying to drag her to the door. But I was just a kid—no match for a grown woman. And Linda, though thin, was surprisingly strong.

She turned, scooped me up in one motion.

She held me tight, arms like steel. I kicked and screamed, but she didn’t flinch. I was just a kid, powerless. She looked me in the eye—not angry, just determined.

"Linda, sorry, don’t be mad."

Seeing me caught, Dad’s anger faded. He put a hand on Linda’s arm, voice shaky. I saw the worry in his eyes, the way he tried to make peace.

"Joe, did you mean what you said?"

Linda didn’t argue, just asked Dad calmly, her voice low and steady. She looked at Dad, not me, waiting for his answer.

"Uh..."

Dad nodded blankly, not even sure what she meant.

He looked confused, caught between us. He nodded anyway, as if agreeing to something bigger than either of us understood.

"Alright, from now on, I’m this kid’s real mother."

Linda’s words landed like a gavel. The room felt smaller. I stopped struggling, stunned.

"You, as a man, don’t know how to be gentle. I’ll handle her upbringing."

With that, she carried me into the small room next door.

I got a real spanking.

It wasn’t just a slap. It was a message. I cried, but Linda didn’t yell. She just finished, then handed me a tissue, her face set.

Even after the spanking, under her eye, I had to do the laundry for her and Dad.

She showed me how to separate colors, measure detergent, hang shirts up the way she liked. My hands stung from the soap, but I refused to let her see me cry again.

"Jamie, you don’t have to call me Mom, but if you mess up, I’ll discipline you."

Linda stood behind me, laying out my future. Her voice was firm, but not cruel. I hated her for it, but I also felt a weird kind of relief. At least I knew where I stood. My stomach twisted, but part of me felt safer than I wanted to admit.

After that day, I tried to rebel a few more times. But at ten, I was no match for her. I was completely outmatched.

She was relentless. Chores, curfews, manners—she enforced them all. I tried every trick, but she was always two steps ahead. It was exhausting.

"Hmph, a girl knows when to pick her battles. I’ll get my chance!"

Rubbing my red palms, I decided to lay low for now. I’d fight back later. I muttered to myself, plotting revenge, but deep down I wondered if it was even worth it.

That weekend, Mrs. Martinez came by to cut my hair again. Since my mom left, Dad focused on work. He barely cooked, let alone braided my hair. With no choice, I gave up on cute braids and kept my hair short.

Mrs. Martinez always brought her own scissors, humming old Motown songs—usually a little "Ain’t No Mountain High Enough"—as she worked. She’d cluck her tongue, saying, “Such pretty hair, such a shame.” But I never complained. It was easier to keep it short.

"Jamie, how’s your new mom?"

She chatted while packing up her tools, her eyes flicking to me in the mirror.

Her tone was gentle, but I could tell she was fishing for gossip. I could feel her eyes on me in the mirror, waiting for my answer.

"Not good."

I pouted, full of resentment. I crossed my arms, scowling, making sure she knew I was still mad, still loyal to my real mom.

"Oh honey, having a mom is a blessing. You should try to get along with her."