(My father, stepmother, and I have just watched a movie. We are now watching the credits.)

Stepmother: “You know, credits used to only take up a single page.”

Me: “And now they take up like ten minutes.”

Stepmother: “Animators, ‘character rigging,’ editors… They really do credit everyone.”

Me: *jokingly* “Hey, I walked on set and gave you a coffee; put me in the credits!”

(Not ten seconds later, we see the heading, “Caffeination,” and a name is credited.)

Stepmother: “Wow, talk about perfect timing!”

Me: “I was kidding!”

(I’m twelve-ish. A fast food company is doing a special event for collectable items — gold plated cards in decorative cases themed for a cartoon and card game. I want them, and my mother thinks they look nice for decor for my room, so we make sure to get all six variants. They get placed in a trunk in my room while I reorganize the space. It takes a few days, but I go to get them out of the trunk to find they’re gone. I am very upset about this. I pass by the family computer to see my step-dad has left the web browser on his eBay sales page, where he has just sold a set of the six collectables. Knowing we only had the one set, which was mine, I print a copy of the page to confront him when he gets home from work.)

Me: *upset and yelling* “What made you think this was okay? You stole from me! What is wrong with you?!”

Step-Dad: *lying* “I don’t know why you’re talking about. Leave me alone.”

Me: *shows him the printed page, without letting him touch it* “You need to call the post office and request the shipment to be returned to sender, and you need to refund the buyer. Now! I know how it works. You do it now!”

Step-Dad: *laughs mockingly* “No, you don’t order me around.”

Me: “Fine. Then I’ll just tell Mom you’re a dirty thief who steals from children. Have you been gambling again? Are you covering up the missing money by stealing from me?”

Step-Dad: *stops laughing and looks serious* “If you f****** dare bring her into this, I’ll–”

Me: *speaking over him, totally unconvinced because he’s a coward in all respects* “Oh, so you want to go to prison for threatening a child, now? After stealing from said child? Please. Do it.” *opens arms* “Hit me, dirtbag! I don’t even care if it hurts. I want you to get out of my life; if I can do it by sending you to prison for child abuse that’s fine by me!”

(He storms off to his and my mother’s bedroom. I call her emergency work number.)

Mom: *angry* “What is it? This had better be an emergency; you know better than to call me at work!”

Me: “It is. Your husband threatened my safety when I confronted him for stealing from me. I have proof of the theft. If you don’t come and handle it, he will go to jail tonight.”

Mom: *deflates, softly* “Uh… Okay. I’ll be home in thirty minutes. Take the dog and lock yourself in your room.”

(I did so, and she came home. I showed her the printed page, and she forced him to let her onto his eBay account so she could confirm it. They had a huge fight but tragically didn’t divorce. He didn’t get my collectables back. It’s been about 15 years since then, and I live far enough away that my mother only speaks to me on my terms now. I said that on top of whatever my mother wanted to send me for my upcoming birthday, that my step-dad needs to send me a birthday gift for the first time in my entire life… I think you can guess what I asked for, but now they’re 10 to 20 times the price he received for them, and much rarer! Time will tell if he’s still a dirty thief or if my mother is finally ready to make him do the right thing for once.)

(I am sixteen. This is when marijuana is not yet legal in California. My stepdad, who is only a few years older than me, has been bullying me for his entertainment. The latest topic is my choice of hobbies; art is for children, videogames are evil, Dungeons & Dragons is for satanic losers, and Pokemon is for the, well, an ableist slur I’d rather not repeat, and so on. I bring up my complaints about this chronic harassment to my mother.)

Mom: *smoking a cigarette indoors, despite my severe asthma* “Well, it sounds to me like you need to get more mature hobbies.”

Me: *not surprised, just irritated* “First, how is that fair? He collects baseball cards, and I collect Pokemon cards. It’s basically the same thing! And second, more mature hobbies, like what?”

Mom: *snaps* “GROW THE F*** UP AND FIGURE IT OUT!”

(I am not exactly friends with good people, but my friends are better than blood. They and their parents help me get ahold of “mature” hobbies, with the plan to use it just for show. After spending a week away without notice, I return home to my mother with a very full backpack.)

Mom: *notices the dog acting weird about my backpack* “What’s in that?”

Me: *flops some very raunchy magazines out of the backpack, followed by a suspicious bag of green-brown herb balls and some unmarked pills* “You said you wanted me to grow up and get mature hobbies. So, now, I’m going to go find out what that woman can do with that horse while I’m getting stoned, because that’s what adults do. If I get bored of that, I’m going to raid your liquor cabinet. Is that ‘mature’ enough of a hobby for you? I can’t get my grades any ‘higher’ so I might as well get ‘high,’ too!”

(The cigarette falls out of my mom’s mouth. For once, she is silent. We stare at each other for what feels like several minutes before I repack my backpack and take it to my room and put a chair in front of my door. I toss the backpack out the window, where my friend is waiting, and she sneaks away so I can’t get caught having possession of it. I spend the afternoon playing video games until my mom knocks on my door, instead of just barging in like usual.)

Mom: “Uh, so, uh… You can play video games and stuff all you want. I’ll tell your stepdad to leave you alone.”

(Tragically, he didn’t leave me alone. But at least they stopped trying to force me to stop enjoying my own hobbies after that. I didn’t ever end up using any kind of illegal drugs.)

(I am with my family at an amusement park, and we are queuing to get on a log flume. There are three to a log, so it’s my younger brother in front, stepmum at the back, and me in the middle. This log flume is three steadily escalating hills. We go up the first hill with no problem… or so I think:)

Younger Brother: *who has learning difficulties* “That was horrible; I’m glad it’s over.”

Me: “Uh… We have two more to go through.”

(We started up the second hill. My brother started yelling that he wanted to get off. Once we went down that hill, he started trying to stand up and get off. My stepmum, behind me, was trying to force him down into his seat. Eventually, we went down the last hill, and the picture after was basically my screaming, crying brother trying to get off, my screaming stepmother trying to force him to sit down, and me in the middle with this, “Oh, for f***’s sake,” look on my face.)

(My mother has recently divorced my step-father.)

Man: “Hello, this is [Debt Collector Office]. I’m looking for Mr. [Ex-Stepdad].”

Me: *tired of explaining to every single caller* “Sorry, there is no one here by that name.”

Man: “Oh, isn’t this [my phone number]?”

Me: *sighs* “Yes, it is, but the man you are looking for doesn’t live here… anymore.”

Man: “Do you happen to have his contact details? I really need to get a hold of him. You know, he really is in huge debt, and it can cause a lot of problems if I can’t find him.”

Me: *now intrigued, as we never knew in how much financial s*** he actually was in* “Huge debt, you say?”

Man: “Yes, it really needs to be handled! Do you have any idea how to get a hold of him?”

Me: “Well, I don’t know his exact address, but he lives in [City] now. There are two under that name over there, as his father lives there, too, and he has the same first and last name, so you need to have [Ex-Stepdad] Junior. And do me one favour: make sure you find him. I’ll be laughing my a** off if he goes bankrupt.”

Man: “Don’t worry about that. Trust me, this debt is huuuuuge. Thanks a lot for the help! We might be able to find him now!”

Me: “My pleasure!”