THE LIFE I MADE FOR MYSELF

Just a few months after my dad's burial, my stepmom underwent a drastic transformation. She became withdrawn and apathetic, as if nothing could excite her or bring her joy. Her behavior towards me also changed, and she began to speak to me in a harsh and abusive tone. I tried to brush it off, thinking that she was still struggling to come to terms with my dad's passing. I knew it couldn't be easy for her, and I didn't want to add to her stress.

However, as time went on, her behavior became increasingly erratic and hurtful. She would lash out at me with cruel words, and I started to feel like I was walking on eggshells around her. One day, she made a comment that left me stunned and confused. "You killed your dad, my husband," she said, her voice dripping with venom.

I was taken aback, and I asked her what she meant. She repeated the accusation, and I felt a surge of defensiveness. I explained to her that my dad's death was due to a chemical substance he was exposed to on a business trip, which had damaged his immune system. But she refused to listen, and instead, she continued to blame me for his death.

The conversation was surreal, and I couldn't understand why she was being so cruel. I asked her if she was trying to make me feel bad, and she just shrugged it off. I realized that she was trying to shift the blame onto me, and it was unbearable.

As the days went by, her behavior became more and more erratic. She would say things like, "You're the reason your mom died, and now your dad is gone too." I felt like I was being punched in the gut every time she spoke to me. I didn't know what to do or how to react.

When I couldn't take it anymore, I confided in Uncle Jude. He was furious when he heard about my stepmom's behavior, and he warned her seriously. She apologized to me, and I forgave her, thinking that things would go back to normal.

For a while, it seemed like our family was back on track. My stepmom would drive me to school, cook meals for me, and even spend quality time with me. But when Uncle Jude had to travel back to Los Angeles to be with his pregnant wife, everything changed.

My stepmom's true colors began to show again, and she started to maltreat me. She would give me a long list of chores to do, and if I didn't complete them, she would yell at me. I felt like I was being treated like a servant, and it was unbearable.

One day, I confronted her, asking her what had changed and what I had done wrong. She just shrugged and said that everything was wrong. I asked her to tell me what I could do to fix it, but she just said that I was cursed, and that anyone who loved me would die prematurely.

I was shocked and hurt by her words. I told her that I didn't kill my dad and that Uncle Jude would come back for me. But she just laughed and said that I was deceiving myself. She told me that I had bad luck, and that she wasn't going to be my next victim.

I felt like I was living in a nightmare, and I didn't know how to escape. My stepmom's behavior was becoming more and more erratic, and I was starting to feel like I was all alone in the world.

I felt like I had lost my identity, my sense of self-worth. My stepmom had reduced me to a mere slave, forcing me to do all the household chores without any help. She had fired all the workers, and I was left to do everything on my own. I was treated like a maid, but even the maid was better off than me.

I tried to talk to her, to reason with her, but she wouldn't listen. "What have I done wrong, Mom?" I asked, hoping to understand why she was being so cruel to me.

But she just snapped at me, "Don't you dare call me Mom again? I am not your mother." I felt a pang of sadness and regret, but I tried to explain to her that she was my dad's wife, and that made her my mom.

But she wouldn't have it. "I don't need any qualifications from you," she said, her voice cold and harsh. "Your dad is dead, and I can decide to get married tomorrow."

I felt like I was living in a nightmare, a never-ending cycle of abuse and misery. I apologized, hoping to placate her, but it seemed like nothing I did was ever good enough.

The word "sorry" became my constant companion, my go-to phrase whenever I interacted with my stepmom. I was always saying sorry, even when I didn't know what I was sorry for.

It was like I was trapped in a bad dream, a dream that I couldn't wake up from. I thought we were happy, I thought she was the answer to my prayers. But now, I felt like I was living in a living hell.

I wondered if I would ever find my Prince Charming, my savior who would rescue me from the clutches of my wicked stepmother. But until then, I was stuck in this never-ending cycle of abuse and misery.

I longed to reach out to my uncle, Uncle Jude, to let him know what was happening. But he was nowhere to be found, and I hadn't heard from him in months. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air.

I tried to reach him, but his phone was always unreachable. I didn't have my aunt's number, and I couldn't contact her. I felt so alone and abandoned, like I was the only one who cared about what was happening to me.

My stepmom's words kept echoing in my mind, "You're the reason your mom died, and now your dad is gone too." I felt like I was to blame for everything, and it was a heavy burden to carry.

I had no friends to talk to, no one to confide in. My friend Macy had migrated to Britain with her family, and I was left with no one. The few casual friends I had were now my bullies in school, thanks to my stepmom's corruption.

My life was a living hell, with no peace at home or in school. My body was full of injuries, and I felt like I was walking on eggshells all the time.

One day, my stepmom called out to me, her voice shrill and demanding. "Christabel!!!"

I ran to her, my heart racing with fear. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Why haven't you dusted the parlor cushion?" she asked, her eyes scanning the room for any signs of imperfection.

"I'm preparing breakfast, ma'am," I replied, trying to explain.

"How many hours will it take you to prepare breakfast?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Two hours, ma'am," I replied, trying to estimate the time.

"You have the guts to tell me two hours?" she repeated, her voice rising in anger. "Tell me, are you cooking for a hundred people or only my food?"

I felt a surge of fear and anxiety, and I apologized, trying to placate her. "Your food, ma'am, but the food is done. It's just for me to serve you the food."

She glared at me, her eyes flashing with anger. "Then what are you still waiting for? Be fast about it. I have a meeting with the board of directors."

I nodded, trying to hurry, but I knew that no matter how fast I was, it would never be enough for her. I was trapped in a never-ending cycle of abuse and misery, and I didn't know how to escape.