My father was cheating. The woman he was keeping on the side was a full fifteen years younger than my mother—a college girl with an angelic face. Men don't remember the lean years you starved through with them. Once they make it, all they remember is how to screw you over. When it was finally time to divide the assets, my mother discovered that every cent, every property, had been transferred to his company's name. My father’s official salary was one dollar a month. My mother screamed that he was less than human, but as she hurled every curse she knew, his face remained a mask of indifference. He wasn't guilty; he was triumphant. To twist the knife, he turned to me with a gloating smirk. "Sweetheart, Mommy and Daddy are getting a divorce. Are you going to live like a princess with me, or go beg on the streets with her?" Without a second's hesitation, I threw myself into his arms. "Daddy, I will always be your only daughter!" He roared with laughter, absolutely delighted. But he hadn't understood. The emphasis wasn't on "daughter." It was on "only." 1 My father’s laughter echoed through the house, a booming sound of pure victory. "That's my girl! Just like her old man. You're my pride and joy, Stella." He must have felt like a king. My mother had sacrificed her own career to build his, choosing to become a stay-at-home wife who dedicated her entire existence to her husband and child. Without her, my father's stomach would have been corroded by alcohol years ago. She was the one who brewed the hangover remedies, laid out the stomach medicine, and waited in a chair for him until the dead of night. When he was sick in the hospital, she never left his bedside, staying awake for nights on end. He walked out of the hospital recovered; she walked out with her own health in ruins. But he didn't see any of that. All he could see now was the college girl with the innocent face who wore slutty lingerie underneath to seduce him. My mother had cried, fought, and begged. But his brain had been sucked dry by that tramp's two sets of lips. He couldn't hear my mother's words, and he certainly didn't care about their decade-plus of marriage. When he grew tired of her questions, he brought the woman home, forcing my mother to watch as he pinned her down on their bed, a final, brutal act to extinguish any last spark of hope. He didn't love me, either. I was just a pawn in his game, a tool to shatter my mother's spirit completely. If I chose him, his victory over her would be absolute. At my declaration, the color drained from my mother's face. She stumbled toward me, grabbing my arm, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Stella, what did you just say? Say it again!" "It'll be the same no matter how many times I say it." I pushed her hand away. "I'm staying with Dad." A tear traced a path down her cheek, and it felt like a knife twisting in my gut. "Stella... you don't want your mommy anymore?" "What's the use in wanting you?" I gestured wildly around the spacious villa. "Can you give me a house this big? My middle school finals are coming up. Can you afford my one-on-one tutors? I'm a growing girl—how are you going to feed me? With wilted vegetables from the farmer's market?" I stared at her, my voice cold and hard. "Mom, you couldn't keep Dad happy. You can't drag me down with your sinking ship. Why would I choose a life of misery with you when I can have all of this?" My voice rose, each word a calculated blow. "Dad can give me a better life with the loose change in his pocket. Could you make in ten jobs what he makes in an hour?" She crumpled. Her legs gave out and she sank to the floor, her eyes hollow. "You really don't want me?" I let a flicker of annoyance cross my face. "Mom, this isn't about me not wanting you. It's about you not being able to afford me. You can't give me the life I want. Instead of wasting time trying to win me back, you should be out looking for a job so you can feed yourself." I shook her hand off and walked toward my room, ignoring the desperate sound of her calling my name. I didn't dare look back. I knew if I did, the tears would betray me, and the entire act I'd put on for my father would be for nothing. Just before I closed the door, I saw him wrap his arm around the other woman, beaming like a conquering general. "Get out!" he snarled at my mother. "Don't just lie there. You'll stain the new carpet, and you sure as hell can't afford to replace it." My mother had a little money saved, so I wasn't worried about her immediate survival. Besides, I had my own problems to deal with. My father had already started laying down the new rules. "From now on, Aunt Bianca is your new mother. You will treat her with the same respect you showed your own mom, understand?" I looked at Bianca. She had the face of an ice queen, but I knew in private she was a whore for my father. I plastered a sycophantic grin on my face, baring my teeth in what I hoped was a winning smile, and gave the bitch a perfect, ninety-degree bow. "Hello, Mom!" My father was stunned by how quickly I'd adapted. After a beat, he clapped me on the shoulder, beaming. "Good! That's my girl!" Bianca, however, was unimpressed. She rolled her eyes. "I don't have a daughter that ugly. What a mess." She was the new queen of the castle, so my father just waved me away, telling me to go back to my room. The second my door clicked shut, my phone buzzed. A fifty-thousand-dollar transfer. He might not love my mother anymore, but I was still his blood, his only heir in the world for now. He wouldn't turn on me for Bianca just yet. More importantly, he was drowning in money; he wouldn't care if I spent a little. To avoid raising suspicion, I went about my days as usual—school, homework, repeat. No one would have guessed I was a middle schooler whose family had just imploded. But the rumors started anyway. Whispers in the hallways that I'd ditched my poor mom for my rich dad. Classmates started pointing and staring. My teachers pulled me aside for "talks." That evening, after school, I went straight to my mother. When she opened the door to her small rental apartment, I saw the flicker of hope in her eyes, a hope she was desperately trying to suppress. "What are you doing here?" I pushed her inside, shut the door behind me, and collapsed into her arms, sobbing silently. Her own composure shattered. She held me tight, her own tears soaking my shoulder. It was pathetic. I had to sneak around just to see my own mother, afraid to be seen, afraid to even cry out loud. When we were both cried out, I pulled four thick wads of cash from my backpack. "It's my allowance from Dad. Take it." She refused instantly. "I don't want his money!" I forced the cash into her hands. "Why not? You have to take it!" "Stella, please... come back and live with me..." "And how would you support me? Forget it. I'm not coming back." Fresh tears welled in her eyes. "You're right. I'm useless. I'm just a burden..." I gripped her hands. "Mom, you are not a burden. Dad has so much money. If I go with you, what happens when he has another kid with her? Am I supposed to just let some stranger's child inherit everything?" My voice dropped to a fierce whisper. "Everything he has will be mine. Bianca, Shmianca... let's see if she can even produce a child. That's the real test." My mother's eyes were wide with alarm. "Stella, what are you planning?" "Don't worry, Mom. I won't do anything reckless. But you need to get back on your feet. If Dad kicks me out one day, I need to know you'll be there to catch me." That was all the motivation she needed. Her spine straightened. "Okay. You just wait. I won't let you suffer, I swear." When I got home that night, my father was waiting. The second I stepped through the door, he lunged forward and slapped me across the face, hard. "You little bitch! Did you give my money to your mother?" The force of the blow was staggering. It sent me sprawling to the floor. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth. I deliberately let a trickle of it run from the corner of my lips. Seeing the blood, my father flinched, but his face was still a mask of pure rage. I looked past him. Bianca was perched on the sofa, legs crossed, wearing a miniskirt that barely covered her ass. She watched me with an expression of pure, mocking contempt. Her look said it all: You think I don't know exactly what game you're playing? When I didn't answer, my father kicked me in the ribs. "Answer me! Did you give my money to that old hag?" I pushed myself to my feet and answered without a shred of hesitation. "Yes." CRACK! Another slap, even harder this time. I hadn't even found my balance before I was sent flying again. I let the momentum carry me, and slammed my head into the corner of a nearby cabinet. THUD. The sound was dull and final. The impact sent a shockwave through my skull, and the world swam before my eyes. A searing pain erupted on my forehead. I touched it and my fingers came away sticky with blood. The sight of a head wound seemed to stop him. He stood over me, panting heavily, his chest heaving like an exhausted animal's—half from rage, half from fear. "Dad," I sobbed, "if I didn't give her the money, they were going to kill me at school." "The kids at school... they all say I'm a motherless child," I wailed, smearing the blood across my face to make it look worse. I pulled up my sleeves to reveal a crosshatch of older, fading bruises and scratches. "They call me a bad seed for choosing you over her." "They beat me up every day. Even the teachers look down on me. They say I have bad character, that I'm morally corrupt." I scrambled to my knees, my bloody face turned up to his. "I couldn't stand it anymore. I just wanted to see her, give her some money so they would stop laughing at me, stop hurting me." I started bawling, loud and theatrical. "Dad, I know Mom Bianca doesn't like me. I know you don't want me here either. Please, just stop hitting me. I'll leave right now." I grabbed my backpack and bolted for the door. I was several steps outside before Bianca's shrill voice cut through the air. "What are you standing there for, you idiot? Get her back here now!" Her voice was laced with panic. "Do you want the neighbors to see her like that and start gossiping about me?" My father knew she was right. Kicking me out right after taking me in would look terrible. But that split second of hesitation was all it took. Several neighbors out for an evening stroll had already seen me—a teenage girl, face covered in blood, fleeing her own home. By the time my father dragged me back inside, at least a dozen people had witnessed the entire scene. Ten minutes later, there was a sharp knock at the door. My father opened it to find two police officers standing on the porch. "Sir, we received a report of child abuse at this address. We need you to cooperate with our investigation." Trapped, my father had no choice but to let them in. The first thing they saw was me, standing meekly in the living room with a fresh bandage wrapped around my head. The officer's gaze shifted to my father. "What happened here? Care to explain?" Bianca watched my father squirm, not with sympathy, but with cold detachment. She offered a lazy, unconvincing excuse. "Who knows how she did it. Probably ran into something. She's clumsy." The officer turned to her. "And you are?" Bianca admired her manicure, then gestured at my father with her chin. "I'm his wife." The officer nodded slowly. "Ah, I see. The stepmother." The word "stepmother" was a lit match on gasoline. Bianca shot to her feet. "Who are you calling a stepmother? I have nothing to do with this brat. It's his daughter. If she misbehaves, it's his right to discipline her. What business is it of yours?" The officer ignored her and focused on my father again. "Is this your child? Where did those injuries come from? We received a call that someone here was beating a child, that her head was bleeding. Is that true?" Before my father could stammer out a lie, I stepped forward. "No, officer. It was my fault. I fell and hit my head. My dad didn't hit me." I took the blame for him. "I did badly on a test, and he yelled at me a little. But he didn't hit me. Really." With the supposed victim denying the abuse, and after confirming I wasn't being coerced, the police had little to go on. They asked a few more questions and left. As we saw them to the door, the lead officer turned back and leveled a stern finger at my father. "Assaulting a child is a crime. Even if it wasn't you this time, you'd better watch yourself." My father nodded and smiled until they were gone. The moment the door closed, his face twisted back into a snarl. "Because you're getting bullied at school, I'll let it slide this time," he hissed, his finger jabbing at my face. "But if I ever find out you've given that woman my money again, I swear to God I will beat you to death." He didn't give me any more money, and I didn't ask. He'd given me fifty thousand. I'd given my mother forty. That left me with ten. As long as I was careful, it would last me until my finals. My mother used the money to rent a second-floor apartment near my school and started an after-school meal service for students. She had spent over a decade catering to my father's every culinary whim, even getting a chef's certificate for him. Cooking for kids was second nature. With a little promotion from me at school, her service filled up in days. The school cafeteria food was slop, and my mother's cooking quickly won over parents, who complained that she didn't have enough spots. I knew she wasn't just doing it for the money. She wanted to be close to me, to see me every day. But the peace didn't last. After two weeks of eating my mother's delicious meals, the health department showed up for a surprise inspection. Though her licenses were all in order, they nitpicked every little thing, claiming her cooking zones for raw and cooked food weren't compliant. They ordered her to shut down for "rectification," citing an anonymous tip from a "concerned citizen." The image of Bianca's face, a mask of petty malice, flashed in my mind. I was sure she was the one who had snitched about the money, too. So annoying. I had already humbled myself, called her "Mom." And still, she wouldn't leave us alone. That night, as usual, I brought her a glass of warm milk. "Aunt Bianca, your milk." Ever since my mother was kicked out, this had become my daily chore. If the milk was too hot or too cold, I'd get a lecture from her, which would earn me a beating from my father. The police warning had done nothing to deter him. I stood beside her, watching her sip the milk. She handed me the empty glass. "If you have something to say, spit it out. I don't have patience for your games." I kept my expression innocent and harmless. "Aunt Bianca, was it you who reported my mom's business?" She raised an eyebrow, a taunting smile playing on her lips. "Oh? You figured it out?" "You've already driven my mother away. My father worships you now. Why can't you just leave her alone?" "Why? Why do you kick a chained dog? Why do you burn ants with a magnifying glass? Why do you swat a mosquito?" A look of profound contempt crossed her face. "It's the same principle. I'm not happy until she's completely destroyed. And you," she added, her eyes narrowing, "don't think for a second that you're safe just because you chose your father. Not a chance." Her hand drifted down to rest on her flat stomach. "Your father's money will all go to my child. You, the bastard of his ex-wife, won't get a single penny. So if you know what's good for you, get out of this house and go find your pathetic mother. Otherwise, don't blame me for being a cruel stepmother. I'm not—" She stopped mid-sentence. Her body swayed, her legs turning to jelly, and she collapsed back onto the sofa. She reached for the armrest, but her limbs wouldn't obey. She was completely paralyzed. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, darted to me in terror. "You... you drugged me?" I knelt beside her, stroking her cheek, making sure she could see the manic, ecstatic glee on my face. "Mommy," I whispered, "you're pregnant? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
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