I used to believe that family was the one thing you could always trust. I thought family was the place you leaned on when life became too heavy to carry alone.
Then grief shifted everything under my feet.
My mom died when I was 19, and at the time, I truly believed that was the worst pain I would ever feel. I thought nothing could hurt more than seeing her chair sit empty at the dinner table, untouched, like she might walk back in at any moment.
I was wrong.
A year later, my dad remarried.
Her name was Melinda.
She was 20 years old. The same age as me.
That fact alone made my skin crawl, and it still does. From the moment she moved into our house, it felt like I had been thrown into a competition I never asked for and never wanted.
It wasn’t just the age thing, though that alone was hard enough to swallow. It was the way Melinda looked at me. Not like a stepdaughter. Not like family. But like a rival.
She spoke to me with tiny, sharp digs hidden inside sweet smiles. Little comments that stung just enough to leave a mark.
One day, she tilted her head and smiled smugly at me.
“Teaching?” she said lightly. “That’s a cute hobby, Lola. I mean, if you’re into that stuff, I guess.”
It felt like she’d just compared my career to finger painting. Like shaping young minds meant nothing.
Another time, she stirred cream into her coffee slowly and sighed.
“So, still single?” she asked. “Tick-tock, Lola. Time is running out.”
I remember gripping my mug so hard that morning I thought it might shatter in my hands.
Every time I tried to talk to my dad, David, about it, he brushed it off.
“She’s young, Lola,” he’d say with a tired smile. “Immature, sure. But she’s got a good heart. Maybe she only shows it to me right now, but you’ll see it too. In time. I promise.”
I waited.
I never saw it.
A few years into their marriage, Melinda got pregnant, and the entire house began to orbit around her. My dad was over the moon. He jumped at every craving, every request, every whim.
If Melinda saw something on social media and decided the baby “needed” it, my dad bought it.
“Babies need more these days,” Melinda would say, rubbing her belly. “There are gadgets now that make life easier. We should give them the best start.”
“Sure, darling,” my dad would reply happily. “Whatever you want. Just send me a list.”
And for a while, I tried to stay invisible.
But when Melinda started planning her baby shower, suddenly I mattered.
Not as family.
As labor.
It started small.
“Can you handle the invitations, Lola?” she asked one afternoon, lounging on the couch with her ankles propped up. “I’m just so exhausted. Pregnancy brain is real, you know.”
I nodded, even though my chest felt tight.
“Sure,” I said. “I can do that.”
I told myself it was just one task. No big deal.
But then came another.
“Could you make some appetizers?” she asked the next morning. “Homemade feels more personal. You don’t want your dad embarrassed by store-bought food, do you? He’s been through enough.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
Then, while I was making myself a sandwich, she wandered into the kitchen, helped herself to my food, and said casually, “Oh, that looks good. By the way, can you scrub the baseboards in the living room? Guests notice those things.”
“I doubt anyone’s inspecting baseboards,” I said.
“You’d be surprised,” she replied with a laugh. “I want everything perfect.”
Then came the request that almost broke me.
“I ordered a huge ‘Oh Baby’ sign,” she said. “It’s arriving today. I need you to assemble it in the backyard. My knees hurt just thinking about it.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I smiled.
By the 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 glared at me when I finally came home late.
Melinda, meanwhile, lay on the couch scrolling through Instagram, rubbing her belly like royalty overseeing servants.
“Iron the tablecloths, Lola,” she said, pointing.
That was when I finally spoke up.
“This feels less like helping,” I said carefully, “and more like working.”
She smirked.
“Oh, come on. You don’t have a husband or kids. It’s not like you have anything better to do.”
Her words cut deep.
I stayed—for my dad.
The night before the shower, my phone rang.
“I need you to come over,” Melinda said sharply. “All the glassware needs washing. There are at least forty glasses.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said, laughing weakly.
“I am serious,” she snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
By the end of the week, I was exhausted beyond words. I stayed up past midnight three nights in a row, ironing, cooking, assembling decorations.
Melinda didn’t lift a finger.
The day of the baby shower arrived, and the house buzzed with guests. The backyard looked perfect—fairy lights, pastel balloons, ribbons dancing in the breeze.
It was beautiful.
Because I made it beautiful.
Guests gasped.
“This is incredible,” someone whispered. “It must have cost a fortune.”
Melinda smiled proudly.
“Oh, thank you! I worked so hard on all of this.”
I nearly choked on my drink.
I worked nonstop, refilling trays and wiping spills. Someone even asked me, “Are you with the caterer?”
“I’m not,” I said quietly.
When it was time to open gifts, Melinda squealed over designer items and expensive gadgets.
Then she reached for my gift.
She lifted it, laughed, and said loudly, “This is kind of basic, don’t you think, Lola? The registry was right there. Some people just don’t understand what babies need.”
My face burned.
Then came a sharp clearing of a throat.
My grandfather, Walter, stood up slowly, leaning on his cane.
“Melinda,” he said calmly, “it’s time someone told the truth.”
The room froze.
“Do you know who made this party happen?” he asked. “Who cooked, cleaned, ironed, decorated?”
He pointed at me.
“Lola did.”
Melinda tried to laugh it off. “I didn’t mean—”
He raised his hand.
“She stayed up until two in the morning. She worked full days and still came here to help you. And now you insult her?”
The room buzzed with whispers.
“You should be ashamed,” Grandpa said firmly. “Respect is worth more than any stroller.”
Applause broke out.
Melinda sat silent.
Later, my dad pulled me aside.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize.”
Grandpa winked at me as he left.
“Never let anyone treat you like the help,” he whispered.
Things are tense now. Melinda barely speaks to me.
But last week, I overheard her on the phone.
“I’ll get even with her,” she said. “Just wait.”
So maybe this story isn’t finished yet.