My periods are INSANELY painful. I’ve been hospitalized because of them. When I am around fifteen, my stepmom and my dad go to a barbecue. They ask me to come along, but I don’t feel that great, so I stay home.

About two hours after they leave, I fall to the floor in COMPLETE pain. My dogs find me; my pit bull stays next to me while my boxer runs around looking for someone to help me. I text my dad, telling him he needs to come home, but he doesn’t answer. About five minutes later, I get a call from my stepmom.

Stepmom: “Why did you text your dad that?”

Me: “Because I’m lying on the floor in pain and can’t get up.”

Stepmom: “Why can’t you get up?”

Me: “I’m on my period and this pain won’t stop unless I stay curled up in a ball like this.”

Stepmom: “Ugh, fine, we are coming home. But don’t ever text your dad with that again.”

She hangs up. They arrive fifteen minutes later. My boxer runs over to them and shows them where I am. My dad picks me up and carries me to my room. My stepmom gets some painkillers and a heating pad and tells me to sleep. She is mad the rest of the day and won’t even look at me.

The next day, we meet my mom, and my dad tells her everything that happened. My mom and I decide to start looking into birth control. We find out I can’t have the pill because I have epilepsy, so we end up going with an implant.

I later tell my dad and stepmom that I got birth control to help and my dad is happy.

Stepmom: “I hope you know that means you can’t go around sleeping with everyone.”

I sit there in shock that she said something like that IN FRONT OF MY DAD.

Around dinnertime, I still can’t stop thinking about what she said. My dad knows that something is troubling me.

Dad: “She didn’t mean it, you know. That’s not how it was meant to come out.”

I believe my dad, of course.

When dinner is finally served, my stepmom keeps giving me dirty looks and looks at the food like I just gave her a severed human head to eat.

Stepmom: “Did [My Name] help make any of this?”

Dad: “Everything except the vegetables that you made.”

My stepmom then proceeded to only eat the vegetables, like I was going to give her some sort of disease because I got birth control. I ate about half my food and then cleaned up. My dad apologized for her, but I didn’t believe it this time.

My dad, my new stepmother, and I are in a theme park. We are waiting for a ride that allows you to drive through a path on a car, and somehow my stepmom gets into the driver’s seat while my dad and I are in the back seat. I don’t know much about her, except her previous husband used to yell at her for everything and she’s a bit jumpy. Obviously, my dad knows this.

Dad: “Hurry up! What are you doing? GO! GO! GO!”

Stepmom: “I’m trying!” *Fusses around in a panic*

Dad: “You’re gonna crash! AHHHHH!”

Stepmom: “SHUT UP! I said I’m trying!”

He turned to me and winked. I gave him a disapproving stare. I suffer from anxiety, too — mainly because of him — and I didn’t think him scaring my stepmom was funny. He continued to yell at her, and the car jolted around. Needless to say it wasn’t fun, and that was the last time I went to a theme park with them.

I’m getting ready to buy my first house. I’m talking to my mom about my mortgage application. It may be relevant that I’m female; I’m not sure if this is mansplaining or “parentsplaining.”

Me: “I don’t think my credit score should be a problem. It was 760 the last time I checked it.”

My stepdad walks in, overhears this, and decides his expertise is desperately needed in this conversation.

Stepdad: “You checked your credit score?”

Me: “Yes—”

Stepdad: “That could be a problem. I don’t know why, but checking it makes it lower.”

Having researched this when I got my credit card, I DO know why — at least the basics. There are two kinds of credit checks: hard and soft. Hard checks are done by people considering whether to loan you money, and lots of them in a row is a red flag that you’re either taking out lots of loans or repeatedly getting turned down and applying again. I also know that the credit score website my bank recommends does NOT do hard checks and won’t affect my credit. I attempt to explain this to my stepdad.

Me: “I—”

Stepdad: *Patronizing* “You need to be careful, okay? You could hurt your credit score. I don’t know why, but it does.”

Me: “But—”

Stepdad: *Annoyed* “I don’t know why! But it does.”

I DO KNOW why! If he’d stop interrupting me just to say, “I don’t know,” I could explain it! But since that’s not going to happen, I give up, shut up, and nod. After my stepdad leaves, my mom says:

Mom: “You need to let it go and not argue with him. It’s really unpleasant for me to listen to you two fighting. If you loved me, you wouldn’t argue with him.”

Of course! How could I have failed to recognize Mom’s suffering, having to hear me make not one, but TWO attempts to talk, and my stepdad steamrolling over me, which is naturally also my fault? Obviously, SHE’S the real victim here!

Luckily, I was absolutely right about my credit score — which somehow wasn’t trashed by a single soft check — and my mortgage application was accepted. I’ll move out of their house in two weeks.

I’ve moved back in with my parents while I’m going back to college. I’m paying them rent and helping with housework while I’m there.

We’ve been getting torrential downpours for a week straight. We’ve been having daily severe thunderstorms on top of consistent showers, there have been multiple tornado warnings, and the entire area has been in a flash-flood warning for the last five days. Our lawns are completely screwed up and have been getting worse day by day; the grass is soaked, the ground is so saturated that it feels like you’re walking on a bed of wet sponges and you actually sink several inches if you walk on it, there are huge puddles all over the grass, and it’s just generally a complete mess. Needless to say, it’s not in any state to mow.

But despite all of this, my step-father has been begging me to mow the lawn for the past few days. I’ve told him every time that I’m not going to mow the lawn in its current state, and that once it finally stops raining and dries out, I’ll gladly mow it. Each day, he’s gotten angrier and angrier that I’m not mowing it, despite the fact the yard is pretty much in terrible shape.

Finally, this transpires one day after I wake up.

Me: “Good morning, [Step-Dad]!”

Step-Dad: *Without even greeting me* “You think you can mow the lawn today?”

Me: “I mean, I’ll check and see, but it was literally downpouring the entire night and it’s supposed to keep raining today. If the yard is still covered in puddles, I’m not going to mow it.”

Step-Dad: *Exploding* “You know what?! I’m sick and tired of this! You need to do as I say and mow the d*** lawn! You’re so lazy, I can’t stand it!”

Me: “Have you actually looked at the lawn? It’s in no shape to mow. Trust me.”

Step-Dad: “This is complete bulls***! I shouldn’t have to ask you every single day to mow the lawn!”

Me: “Again… have you actually looked at the lawn?”

Step-Dad: “I don’t care! You can do it! You will do it!”

My mom enters the room.

Mom: “[Step-Dad], stop being ridiculous! The yard is like a swamp! It’d be like trying to mow a swimming pool!”

Step-Dad: “God, I can’t stand both of you! You’re just enabling [My Name] to be lazy! He should have mowed the lawn days ago when I first asked!”

Mom: “If you’re going to get so bent out of shape about it, why don’t you mow the lawn?”

Step-Dad: *Glaring* “Maybe I will!”

He turns back to me.

Step-Dad: “Don’t think you’re off the hook, [My Name]!”

He then went outside and I heard the lawnmower start. About fifteen minutes later, he came back inside. In that time, he only managed to mow a single line in the yard, the lawnmower got clogged with sopping-wet grass and stalled out about ten times, he managed to rip a huge hole in the yard and uproot a big line of grass, and his nice sneakers and jeans were completely soaked and covered in mud from walking through puddles. Needless to say, he stopped asking me to mow the lawn until the weather finally cleared up for a few days.

This story is part of our Best Of August 2021 roundup!

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My stepmother has her good traits, but she does have this one really nasty trait. She is notoriously picky and critical when it comes to food. You know the stereotypical snooty and rude French character in movies and books who always complains, “That is not how this is done in France.”? She’s this way when it comes to food.

Going out to eat with her is embarrassing. She constantly sends back food, insists on food being made a certain way, and demands certain things done a certain way. One time, she asked the waiter to bring some mustard to the table. Not two minutes later, she called him back because the mustard was “old,” and insisted that he bring us a new unopened bottle. More than once, I’ve had to apologize to the waitstaff on my family’s behalf and tell the manager that I will vouch for them should [Stepmother] leave a bad review on their site.

She’s made waiters and managers cry; she’s that bad. Honestly, I have no idea why Dad puts up with her when she does that, even though I know he’s just as embarrassed as [Brother] and I are.

My dad just came into town to visit my brother and me for a few days and brought my stepmother with him. Dad recommended our new favorite new diner, which is known for its breakfasts at any time of the day. We live close to a major interstate and the saying about truckers knowing all the best diners and holes in the wall in all fifty states and then some is true.

It’s a greasy spoon in every sense of the word — right out of the 1950s, every leather booth filled with truckers or locals, waitresses who automatically know their regulars’ orders by heart and don’t put up with crap from anyone, a bustling kitchen — and while spotless, it’s just worn enough to let you know many people have been there. In other words, it has character. It may not look like a five-star restaurant, but it has some of the best breakfasts you’re ever going to eat.

I was hesitant to take [Stepmother] there if only because I didn’t want to ruin the staff’s day; [Brother] and I have been there enough times that the waitstaff and cooks know us. However, Dad wanted [Stepmother] to experience “a true American classic” and was offering to pay. So off we (reluctantly) went.

Luckily, we got there during a time that wasn’t busy, so I told Dad to find a parking spot and I would go in to get us a table. I wanted to warn the staff about [Stepmother] and apologize in advance for anything she did. Fortunately, our usual waitress thanked me for the warning and warned the rest of the staff.

We went in, got our booth… and [Stepmother] tried pulling her usual stunts. I won’t go into everything she did because we’ll be here forever, but I’ll leave a highlight reel.

[Stepmother] sent [Waitress] back three times with the coffee because, in order, “it was too cold”, “it was too hot,” and “not enough cream”. Finally, [Waitress], who doesn’t let anybody push her around, just slapped the coffee pot on the table along with the cream and sugar and told [Stepmother] to make do because she wasn’t going back to get her d*** coffee. This made [Brother] and me chuckle and [Stepmother] steam.

While waiting (and probably still stewing from [Waitress]’s little comeback with the coffee), [Stepmother] decided to accost a new waitress who had just started and tell her to get some fresh biscuits. Not ask. Tell. Poor [New Waitress], who was understandably anxious about her job, did as she was told. Then [Stepmother] made a fuss about the packets of butter not being soft enough, despite [New Waitress] explaining that all the butter was kept cold for safety reasons. [Stepmother] made a snide remark about how [New Waitress] couldn’t wait five extra minutes to let the butter soften, which made [New Waitress] tear up. I was about ready to tell [Stepmother] off.

When our meals did arrive, [Stepmother] was quiet during the meal, not making comments. I was unsure what was going to happen. Either she really liked it (which I doubted, seeing as I’ve never seen her compliment anyone’s cooking whenever we’ve gone out) or she was planning some nasty barb (which I feared). When [Waitress] dropped off the bill, [Stepmother] took it before Dad could and said she was paying. Because I was sitting next to her, I saw that [Stepmother] left a big fat zero in the tip line and left a note, “It’s cute that American chefs think they’re good cooks when they’ve never stepped in a real kitchen before. Prove me wrong,” before closing the little book the receipt came in and hiding it so nobody else could see what she wrote.

I was pissed when I read that note and was about ready to slap [Stepmother]. I know that the chefs and servers who work at this particular diner learned their skills on the job and, if you ask me, they have every right to be as proud of their work as someone who went to culinary school would be.

I took out $100 using the ATM at the diner and gave it to the staff as a tip along with an apology for her behavior, embarrassed and angry. Fortunately, they didn’t hold it against us (except [Stepmother]) and told me that [Brother] and I were always welcome back.

I also decided I was going to get back at [Stepmother].

There was a benefit to this lockdown. During this time, bored out of our wits and wanting to better our skills, [Brother] and I have been binge-watching recipe and cooking how-to videos online and practicing. And while I don’t like bragging, I’d say we’ve become quite good. We know how to smoke our own bacon, cure corned beef, make creamy scrambled eggs, and bake flaky croissants… and that’s just a sampling.

When we got home, I told [Brother] my plan and he was grinning ear to ear.

The next day, while [Stepmother] and Dad still slept, [Brother] and I got up early and got right to work. We prepared scrambled eggs, home-cured bacon, biscuits, and a fruit salad.

Dad came downstairs first and [Brother] asked him to set the table. [Stepmother] came down as we were finishing up and sat down, not offering to help.

[Stepmother] commented that it smelled just like a restaurant she went to in France and she couldn’t wait to taste everything. [Brother] and I served plates for Dad and ourselves before putting everything away. [Stepmother] looked at us, confused.

I looked at her and said, “Oh, I thought you were going to a French cafe for breakfast. You did write on the receipt at the diner that you thought it was cute that Americans think they’re good cooks if they haven’t set foot in a real kitchen, and you wanted someone to prove you wrong.”

Dad looked at [Stepmother], his eyes wide, as all the color drained from [Stepmother]’s face.

“You wrote what?!” Dad said.

“Well, hop to it,” I said, sitting down. “Enjoy your French breakfast with your French chefs.”

[Stepmother]’s face reddened and she left. I don’t know if she was embarrassed or angry, but we were able to have a nice breakfast without any of [Stepmother]’s complaining.

She did come back after getting breakfast, and she was nice and quiet all day.

Dad and [Stepmother] were supposed to stay with us for a few days before I return to work next week. They left this morning… but not before they had a vicious argument last night after my brother and I went to bed. And when I say vicious, I mean it was so loud that we could hear every word. Thank God the neighbors couldn’t hear; otherwise, we might’ve had the cops called on us.

Dad chewed [Stepmother] out about what she wrote on the receipt and reminded her that she had promised him she’d be on her best behavior. After all, this restaurant was special, not just to [Brother] and me, but to Dad, as well. [Stepmother] defended her actions, saying that it was not what she likes, etc… until she finally blew up and revealed the real reason she threw that tantrum in the restaurant.

It turned out Dad was planning on surprising [Stepmother] on a trip to one of the best restaurants in town to celebrate the anniversary of their first date, which was yesterday. She had found the reservations by accident and thought they were going the night they arrived; he was planning on taking her in a couple of days to make it a real surprise.

Going to the greasy spoon instead of the super nice, expensive restaurant really upset her, and she thought he was catering to his kids instead of her. The argument finally ended when Dad took to the couch downstairs, fed up with her BS.

They left this morning. Dad told me before they left that he was going to have a serious talk with [Stepmother] about her behavior and that until she learned her manners, he is not going to take her out anymore, even to our place.

Hopefully, that will be either the wake-up call to [Stepmother] to behave… or to Dad that he should get out.