I used to believe that family was the one thing in life that never changed. I thought family was the place you leaned on when everything else felt too heavy, too painful, too lonely.
I was wrong.
Grief changes everything. It shifts the ground under your feet until nothing feels solid anymore.
My mom died when I was 19. I honestly believed that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. I believed nothing could hurt more than walking into the kitchen and seeing her chair empty at the table, day after day.
But I was wrong again.
A year later, my dad remarried.
Her name was Melinda. And she was my age.
Twenty years old.
Even now, thinking about it makes my skin crawl. From the moment she moved into our house, it felt like I had been pushed into a competition I never agreed to join. It wasn’t just that we were the same age, though that alone was uncomfortable. It was the way she looked at me—like I was something she needed to beat.
She smiled at me often, but her smiles were sharp.
One day, she tilted her head and said sweetly,
“Teaching? That’s a cute hobby, Lola. I mean, if you’re into that kind of thing.”
She said it like I’d chosen finger painting instead of a real career. Like shaping young minds meant nothing.
Another time, she stirred cream into her coffee, sighed loudly, and asked,
“So, still single? Tick-tock, Lola. Time is running out.”
I remember gripping my mug so tightly I thought it might crack in my hands.
Whenever I tried to talk to my dad about it, he brushed it off.
“She’s young, Lola,” he’d say. “Immature, sure. But she’s got a good heart. You’ll see it in time. I promise.”
I kept waiting to see that good heart.
It never showed up.
A few years into their marriage, Melinda got pregnant. From that moment on, the entire house revolved around her. My dad was thrilled. He jumped up at every craving, every sigh, every request.
She’d scroll through social media and point at expensive baby gadgets.
“Babies need more these days,” she’d say. “We should give them the best start.”
“Of course,” my dad would reply. “Whatever you want, darling.”
And he meant it.
When Melinda started planning her baby shower, I tried to stay invisible. But suddenly, she needed me. Not as family—more like unpaid help.
It started small.
“Can you handle the invitations, Lola?” she asked, stretched out on the couch, ankles swollen. “Pregnancy brain is real. I’m just so tired.”
I nodded.
“Sure,” I said, telling myself it was only one task.
But one task became many.
“Could you make some appetizers?” she asked another day. “Homemade is better. You don’t want your dad embarrassed, do you?”
“Okay,” I said quietly.
Then, while I was making a toasted sandwich, she walked in and took half of it.
“That looks good,” she said. “Oh, and could you scrub the baseboards? Guests notice those things.”
I stared at her.
“Do they really?”
“You’d be surprised,” she laughed. “I want everything perfect.”
Then came the big one.
“I ordered a huge ‘Oh Baby’ sign,” she said. “It’ll arrive today. I need you to assemble it in the backyard. My back hurts just thinking about it.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I smiled and agreed.
By Thursday before the shower, I was at my dad’s house every night after work. My laundry piled up at home. My fridge was empty. Even my cat gave me angry looks when I finally came home late.
Meanwhile, Melinda lay on the couch, scrolling through Instagram like a queen supervising servants.
“Iron the tablecloths, Lola,” she said one evening.
I finally snapped—just a little.
“This feels less like helping and more like working,” I said carefully.
She smirked.
“Oh, please. You don’t have a husband or kids. It’s not like you have anything better to do.”
That one hurt more than all the others.
Still, I stayed. For my dad.
The night before the shower, she called me during my lesson planning.
“Can you come over?” she asked. “I need someone to wash the glassware.”
“Forty glasses?” I laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m serious,” she snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
By the time everything was ready, I’d stayed up past midnight three nights in a row. Melinda hadn’t lifted a finger.
The day of the shower arrived. The house buzzed with guests. The backyard looked perfect—fairy lights, pastel balloons, ribbons blowing in the breeze.
People gasped.
“This is gorgeous!” someone said.
“It looks like a magazine!” another whispered.
Melinda beamed.
“I worked so hard on all of this,” she said proudly.
I nearly choked on my drink.
I spent the party refilling trays and wiping spills. One guest stopped me.
“Are you with the caterer?” she asked.
“I’m not,” I said quietly.
When gifts were opened, Melinda squealed over designer items and expensive gadgets.
Then she opened my gift.
She laughed.
“This is kind of basic, don’t you think, Lola?” she said loudly. “The registry was right there.”
The room went quiet.
Then a cane tapped against the floor.
My grandfather, Walter, stood up.
“Melinda,” he said calmly. “Do you know who did all of this?”
He pointed at me.
“Lola did. Every ribbon. Every cookie. Every late night.”
Melinda tried to laugh.
“I didn’t mean—”
He raised his hand.
“You should be ashamed. Respect is worth more than any stroller.”
The room erupted in applause.
Melinda said nothing for the rest of the day.
Later, my dad apologized softly.
“I’m sorry, Lola. I didn’t see it.”
Grandpa winked at me.
“Never let anyone treat you like the help,” he whispered.
Things are tense now. Melinda barely speaks to me. Honestly, that feels like peace.
But last week, I heard her on the phone.
“I’ll get even with her,” she said. “Just wait.”
So maybe this story isn’t over.
But if she thinks I’m alone this time, she’s wrong.