Chapter 4: The Application and the Rift

I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe, not sure if it was from hurt or jealousy. My chest ached, tears streaming down my face. I wanted someone to choose me, just once.

I always thought Dad gave me everything and was the best dad in the world. Until Linda arrived, and I saw him baking cakes and cooking for her, too. He even took off work to care for her when she was sick. My love was split in two, and nobody took my side.

All anyone said was, you have a new mom now, be grateful. But I knew—she wasn’t my mom. She just wasn’t.

"Joe, it’s Christmas. Don’t talk to her like that. Don’t cry, Jamie. If you don’t like the dress, don’t wear it. Next time, I’ll take you to pick one out yourself."

Stepmom wiped my tears and tried to comfort me. Her hands were gentle, her voice soft. For a second, I almost believed she cared. But I couldn’t let myself trust her—not yet.

I broke away and ran to my room, slamming the door, burying my face in my pillow, and sobbing until I fell asleep.

"Linda, I was just anxious. She’s so stubborn."

Dad stood at the door, unsure if he was explaining or comforting. I heard their voices through the wall, muffled and tense. I wondered if they were fighting about me.

I didn’t hear what Linda said. I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, the house was empty. Just as I was feeling lost, Dad came in, sunlight streaming through the window. The house was quiet, too quiet. My stomach rumbled, but I didn’t want to leave my room.

"Jamie, come see what Dad got you."

He smiled, shaking a shopping bag, his voice a little too cheerful. I peeked out. He was alone at the door.

The living room looked the same, but the air felt lighter. I tiptoed over, curiosity winning out.

"Linda went to her mom’s for a few days."

As he unpacked the bag, Dad talked to me, his hands shaking a little as he pulled out the dress, then the barrettes. He smiled, eyes hopeful.

"Jamie, I was too impatient before. You’re still a kid. I shouldn’t have forced you."

His voice was soft, apologetic. I could tell he meant it.

I sat at the table, watching Dad take out a brand new dress—different from yesterday’s—and some cute barrettes. The dress was blue, my favorite color. The barrettes sparkled in the light. For the first time in a while, I felt seen.

"Linda isn’t a bad person. She’s good to you. You’ll understand one day. You’re always my precious girl. Nobody can replace you, I promise."

He patted my head and hugged me like when I was little. His hug was warm, familiar. I let myself sink into it, letting go of some of the anger.

"Mm, I know."

Just like that, we lived peacefully for over a year, and Linda got pregnant. The peace we’d worked so hard for was fragile, easily shattered by the arrival of new life.

The house filled with baby books—"What to Expect When You’re Expecting"—tiny socks, and the smell of prenatal vitamins and baby powder. I watched Linda’s belly grow, feeling both curious and left out.

"Mom’s going to give you a little brother! Are you happy?"

Mrs. Martinez, carrying a bag of green apples, was chatting with my pregnant stepmom. She winked at me, trying to include me in the excitement. I forced a smile, but my heart wasn’t in it.

As I hit puberty, I understood more. People only have so much energy, and it goes where they care most. I was never Linda’s own child. Now that she was having her own, her attitude would only get worse.

I started noticing the little things—how she fussed over the nursery, how Dad hovered around her. I felt like an afterthought, drifting further from the center of their world.

A few months later, Linda gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

The house was filled with balloons and visitors. I watched from the hallway, unsure where I fit in.

"Oh oh oh~"

Dad beamed, holding my little brother, Ben. He bounced Ben in his arms, face glowing with pride. I’d never seen him so happy. I watched, torn between jealousy and longing.

Everyone’s attention shifted to the newborn, and I felt forgotten. The phone rang nonstop. Relatives came and went. I sat on the stairs, watching the world revolve around Ben.

After coming home from the hospital, Linda let me hold Ben. Looking at the tiny, crying bundle, I felt a stab of jealousy.

He was so small, so helpless. I wondered if anyone had ever looked at me that way.

Since my mom left, Dad worked hard and was promoted a few times. Our debts were long paid off, and we had savings. Linda had played the good guy for over a year—she must be tired. Now that she had her own child, she’d fight for her son.

I waited for the other shoe to drop, for Linda to change. But she kept treating me the same, even as she doted on Ben.

Every night, Ben’s crying woke me. Listening to Linda and Dad fuss over him, I couldn’t sleep. I’d press my pillow over my ears, counting the minutes until silence returned. Sometimes, I’d sneak into the kitchen for a glass of milk, just to feel less alone. I wondered if they even noticed.

Not long after, the school organized a movie night, and I heard a song in it. Every time I thought of that song, "You Are My Sunshine," I felt it was my story. I hummed it to myself on lonely nights, the melody both comforting and bittersweet. Sometimes I’d sing the chorus quietly, remembering the warmth in my dad’s voice.

But the stepmom abuse I feared never happened, and I moved up to middle school without trouble. Knowing I’d eat lunch at school, Linda even raised my allowance. She’d slip me a five-dollar bill, telling me to get extra chicken nuggets or a smoothie. I’d roll my eyes, but I always got the nuggets.

"You’re still growing. Don’t skimp on lunch. Make sure you get some protein."

She’d pack my lunchbox with turkey sandwiches and apple slices, always adding a little note: “Have a great day!” I pretended not to care, but those notes always made me smile.

Compared to classmates, my meal money was generous. Dad must have gotten another raise. I overheard him on the phone, bragging about my grades. For the first time, I felt proud—and a little guilty for resenting them.

In middle school, I learned a lot of kids had divorced or remarried parents.