Growing up, life with my stepmother and father was anything but normal. While my father worked from daylight to dark, doing his best to provide for our family, my siblings and I were left in the care of my stepmother—a woman whose resentment and cruelty shaped much of my childhood.
Each day began early. By 6 a.m., we were out of bed, our beds made perfectly, and immediately put to work. The cleaning never seemed to end. If there weren’t any chores left to do, we were punished with isolation, sent to the cold, damp basement and locked away for the rest of the day. That basement wasn’t a place of play or imagination—it was dark and unwelcoming, with no comforts beyond a dusty radio and a box of cassette tapes. The only relief came when we recorded over my father’s tapes with songs from the radio, desperately clinging to moments of joy in a world that offered so little of it.
Unlike other kids, there were no family outings, no sports games, no celebrations of childhood. Instead, our evenings were filled with chaos. When my father finally came home, exhausted from long hours at work, he was met with her venomous accusations. She would fabricate stories about how terrible we had been during the day, claiming we had disrespected her, entered her room, or even stolen her belongings. None of it was true, but it didn’t matter. Her words always carried weight, and her anger would set the tone for the night.
I remember lying to my father so many times, not because I’d actually done anything wrong, but because it made the punishment stop faster. I would make up stories about how I’d taken something and given it to a friend at school or lost it somewhere in the house, just to protect myself from further harm. The lies felt like my only way to survive in a situation where the truth didn’t seem to matter.
The nights were the hardest. The sound of their arguments often echoed through the house, her shrill voice tearing him down, accusing him of not being there, not caring enough, not doing enough. In those moments, I felt invisible, like collateral damage in a war I never asked to be a part of.
I longed for a mothering relationship, and in my desperation, I idolized the very woman who abused me. Unlike my siblings, I seemed to bear the worst of her cruelty, yet I sought her approval and affection in ways they never did. My younger sister, in particular, was fearless—quick to call out my stepmother’s lies and even threaten to expose her infidelity to our father. My sister saw her for who she truly was, unafraid to confront her manipulations, while I struggled to reconcile my desire for love with the reality of her actions.
I remember, even as a very young child, being taken to various locations where my stepmother met with other men. These men would offer us treats—something that felt monumental to kids who didn’t even receive gifts on birthdays or holidays—in exchange for our silence. To my sister, this was another confirmation of my stepmother’s deceit, but to me, it was something I couldn’t process. The idea of telling my father never crossed my mind, not because I didn’t want him to know, but because I feared what it might mean. I couldn’t handle the thought of how violent their fights might become or what fallout might follow. My sister, however, wasn’t bound by that same fear. She saw the truth clearly and stood her ground, while I remained trapped in the illusion of a bond I so desperately wanted but could never truly have.
Even as I grew older, I never felt hatred for her. Instead, I just longed for her love and approval. She was, essentially, the only mother I had ever known. Her acceptance was so important to me that I couldn’t understand where her anger and hatred toward me and my siblings came from. I struggled to make sense of it, questioning if we were somehow the cause of her bitterness. Despite all the pain she caused, the love and connection I craved were always just out of reach, and I couldn’t let go of the hope that one day, she might see me for who I was and finally love me the way I needed.
Somehow, her reality and ours of childhood never aligned. She saw herself as our saving grace, the woman who cared for children another woman had abandoned, never acknowledging the pain and misery she brought to our family. To her, we were ungrateful children, and her sacrifice should have been enough to make us love her unconditionally. But she never recognized how her actions and cruelty overshadowed her so-called “sacrifice.” For us, it wasn’t about gratitude—it was about the emotional and physical scars we carried, scars she either couldn’t or wouldn’t see. In her eyes, she was the hero; in ours, she was the one who kept us trapped in a cycle of pain and longing.
Surviving the Chaos
Looking back, I see the incredible resilience it took to endure those years. As a child, I didn’t understand why life felt so unfair, why the people who were supposed to care for me were the ones who caused the most pain. But those experiences, as painful as they were, taught me how to survive in the face of chaos.
Today, I am working to heal from that trauma. Sharing this story is part of that process. It’s not easy to revisit those memories, but I know that by sharing them, I’m reclaiming my voice and my power. My childhood doesn’t define me—it’s simply a chapter in the story of my life.
