This story takes place when I’m maybe ten years old. My family is financially quite comfortable, especially my grandmother, who has come down from halfway up the country to visit. My brother and I have been taken by my mother, stepfather, and grandmother to a country pub, and when crossing the car park, I find a £5 note.

I am incredibly excited because we don’t get pocket money or the chance to get money for chores. Five pounds wasn’t much even about twenty-five years ago, but it is a big deal to me. In my excitement, I trustingly announce aloud what I have found.

Stepfather: *Demanding* “Hand over that fiver! I’ll hand it over at the bar.”

I’m initially reluctant.

Stepfather: “Whoever dropped it might really need it and it should be given back if possible.”

I understand this; after all, if it made me so happy to find it, so how sad must the person who lost it be? And how happy would they be to get it back? I’m sad not to keep it but hope it makes the owner happy.

My mother and grandmother claim a table outside while my stepfather goes inside to buy drinks and my brother and I go to check out the play area. When my stepfather comes back out with drinks, he announces, not intending for me to hear:

Stepfather: “This round is thanks to [My Name]!”

Looking back now, with the benefit of much greater awareness of what my parents were like and a lot less naivety, I would be shocked if it ever crossed his mind to hand it in at the bar. No, he saw that a child who had never had money of their own had found a little and decided it should be his, instead.

I take my whole family out for lunch every weekend. For some reason, there’s always a wait for cheeseburgers.

Cashier: “Your total is [total] and your cheeseburgers will be ready in a minute.”

Me: “Okay.” 

A tall, white-haired man silently comes up, picks up my tray — complete with fries, drinks, etc. — and walks away. I continue to wait for the cheeseburgers.

I don’t say anything, but the wide-eyed cashier is stunned.  

Cashier: “Your order!”

Me: “What about it?”

Cashier: “That man took your order!”

Me: “He’s my stepfather!”

CONTENT WARNING: Child Abuse

When I am seven or eight years old. My family is sitting down for dinner and, to my excitement, my mom and step-dad bought a two-litre bottle of Coca-Cola today. Having any kind of soda or junk food in the house is a miracle, so I am understandably eager to get myself a glass of bubbly goodness.

I wait until I have eaten some of my dinner before asking about it.

Me: “Can I have some pop?”

My step-dad interrupts before my mom can say no.

Step-Dad: “Here, why don’t you try some of this first?”

He proceeds to grab an honest-to-goodness glass cup — which makes me excited as us kids only ever get plastic — and pours it half-full with a dark liquid from a glass bottle the adults have been drinking from. He hands it to me, and I naively proceed to take a large mouthful… only to spit it all back into the cup in disgust! It isn’t juice; it is WINE.

Me: “Eww! This is gross! I don’t want this!”

Mom: *Angrily* “You just can’t waste it! You need it to drink it all. Drink it and then you can have pop.”

Me: *Starting to get upset* “What? No, please! I just want some Coke. Can I please have that?”

My mom goes to say no again when my step-dad says, “Sure,” gets up, and grabs the soda bottle. I begin to feel better as he comes back to the table… but then he pours the soda INTO the cup of wine, filling it to the top! I can already feel myself begin to get upset again.

Mom and my step-dad both stare at me.

Mom & Step-Dad: “Well?!”

I hesitantly try a sip and, unsurprisingly, it’s worse than before. I put the cup down immediately. 

Me: “I can’t drink this! It’s gross!”

Mom: *Snapping* “You’re going to drink it all; do you understand me?! You asked for that and I’m not going to waste it just because you changed your mind!”

Me: *Beginning to cry* “I didn’t want this. I just wanted some Coke. Please, I just want some pop — not this other stuff!”

Mom: *Almost yelling now* “You’re going to finish that glass and I’m not going to hear another word out of you otherwise. I don’t care if you have to sit here all night; do I make myself clear?”

I didn’t bother protesting further, because that would have only resulted in getting punished for back-talk. Instead, I just sat there and cried. She did keep me at the table after everyone else finished eating, berating me on and off for a few hours as she cleaned up, while I just sobbed and sobbed. I only got sent to bed — that wine-soda monstrosity still untouched — because it was a school night.

I suppose I should start with a mild warning as this story, while funny, is also kind of gross. Welcome to my life.

Allow me to start with a little back story. My father’s wife appears to have done all of her research on how to be a Step-Mother in certain children’s books. I don’t mean she could be a little grumpy; I mean she got cease and desist letters from The Mouse.

On the Sunday evening in question, I had just gotten home and was trying my d***edest to get out of my boots, an effort hampered by the fact that, despite being fifteen, I had worked thirty-six hours in the lambing sheds that weekend and was so tired I had walked home, right past the motorcycle I had ridden to work.

As soon as she heard the front door, she started in on me through the door that separated the kitchen from the front hall, screeching at me that I hadn’t done my chores and I had better get caught up right now or no supper for me.

I said, “I’ve been at work all weekend; you know that. You insisted I take the job.”

As soon as I said the words, I knew it was a mistake, and sure enough, she ripped the door open and took a deep breath to engage in her favourite pastime: berating me for being a waste of skin and air.

Sadly for her — but not me — she took the deep breath after she opened the door.

After thirty-six hours in the sheds, I was covered in… I’m not going to be specific, but suffice to say that if it was liquid and could be found inside a sheep, I was wearing it. (I ended up having to throw all of my clothes out because even a boil wash couldn’t get the smell out.)

Her eyes bugged out, she went green, and she dived past me to throw up in the downstairs bathroom. I finished undressing, threw my clothes and boots out the front door, and went upstairs to scrub myself down with Swarfega: proper manly, gritty cleanser.

You’d think that would be an end to it, right? Wrong.

As I fell asleep — passed out — it was to the sound of her howling at my father because he wouldn’t let her wake me up to vacuum the downstairs and do the dishes.

I turned on Hulu and it needed the password, so I typed it in. It said my password was incorrect, so I tried it again. It was still incorrect, so I asked my mom, who pays for the service and shares it between two houses, if the password was changed. She said no. She asked my stepdad, who is an expert at this stuff, why the password wouldn’t work. He scoffed and said, “I changed it. She can pay for her own.” 

I was stunned, because he’d never done anything like this before. My mom got angry and started yelling at him, saying he had no right and she’s the one who pays for the service, etcetera. 

My stepdad finally said he’d been looking for a reason to throw me out of the house, and he thought this would do it. He was the one who wound up getting thrown out of the house. Due to this and several other recent incidents, my mom is now filing for divorce.