When my father married my stepmother Linda following my mom’s passing, I hoped for the best. She had two daughters, Amanda and Becca, and the thought of having sisters felt comforting at the time. I was just a 12-year-old girl who suffered a loss, and the presence of someone my age in my life could bring a sense of normalcy, or at least that’s what I thought.
The truth was that Linda’s daughter’s were the center of her world – a world in which there was no place for me. My dad didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t getting the attention her daughters were.
The kitchen, where I spent hours cleaning and washing the dishes, suddenly became my prison and my sanctuary.
