CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

I am the author of this story. I was an intern at the time of the first story, but at the end of the year, I realised that I would never be happy as a nurse — too much suffering — and left the school.

Months later, I am at a burger joint with my father, his wife — whom I don’t get along with — my brother, and my sister-in-law. We are making small talk over a burger when my father’s wife starts choking on her burger.

Since I trained to be a nurse, I learned first-aid, so I do the first thing to do when somebody is choking: big slaps on the back. One, two, and she moves away. Someone else, closer, does the Heimlich maneuver, and the burger bite is out. My father’s wife breathes a bit and then turns to me.

Father’s Wife: *Harshly* “Thank God you didn’t become a nurse! That hurt!”

I tried to explain to her that it was what my nurse training told me to do, but she left to go to the toilets. I’m not sorry to say that the imprint of my hand stayed on her back for some time, according to my father.

For unrelated reasons, I cut ties with her. Good riddance.

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Other Than A Third Of The Letters, They’re Basically Identical

My fourteen-year-old step-brother is looking to make some extra cash. His mother (my stepmother) asks if there is anything I can have him do, so I offer him $50 to mow my half-acre lawn.

The next day, my stepmother calls.

Stepmother: “You owe [Step-Brother] more money.”

Me: “Why?”

Stepmother: “He was at your house all day for $50! That’s child labor abuse!”

Me: “I picked him up, fueled the lawn mower, and dropped him off at your house. That’s all gas paid out of my pocket.”

Stepmother: “Yes, but—”

Me: “I also fed him before and after he mowed.”

Stepmother: “Well—”

Me: “He also took a shower here, which is water and electricity on my bill. So, yes, I do think $50 is more than fair for a fourteen-year-old working one hour when I provide everything else that day.”

Stepmother: “You could have given him a little extra. He was helping you.”

Me: “I am capable of mowing my own lawn, but you insisted that I should help him earn money.”

She hung up.

My step-brother called later to apologize and thank me for the cash. He told her all the extra things I did for him, but she still only heard that he made $50 for spending about five hours at my house and decided I was taking advantage of him.

My stepfather has a bit of a temper. He gets extremely peeved if fast food places get his food wrong. My family went through the drive-thru of a certain fast food place. They got our food wrong and my stepfather asked for a remake. They remade the food.

It was wrong again and my stepfather got angry. Remake. Wrong again. My stepfather went nuclear — screaming, cussing, demanding people be fired, the works.

The next day in class, I happened to overhear two classmates talking.

Classmate: “Some son of a b**** came in screaming and got half the staff fired. Including me. I’m officially out of the job.”

Cue me sinking down in my seat and mentally screaming.

I came out as asexual to my family. My siblings were fine with it, my mother was iffy, and my stepfather point-blank refused to believe asexuality was a thing besides in plants. It just didn’t exist to him. It was a hassle to get him to think otherwise.

Stepfather: “The dictionary said asexual is when a plant reproduces with itself. It’s not a sexuality or whatever. It’s with plants.”

Me: “That’s one definition, [Stepfather]. It’s also when someone has no interest in sex or sexual relationships. “

Stepfather: “If it’s not in the dictionary, it’s not true. It’s for plants.”

Me: “Fine, I’ll look it up.”

Stepfather: “I’m not talking about that Urban Dictionary s***. A real dictionary.”

I look it up.

Me: “HA! Webster’s Dictionary. ‘Asexual: not having sexual feelings toward others; not experiencing sexual desire or attraction.’ In the dictionary!”

My stepfather took my phone and read the definition, mumbled some inaudible nonsense, shoved the phone back into my hand, and stormed off without a word.

Both parents, who did their best/worst to keep me away from boys and sex, now regularly pull the “You haven’t found the right guy; once you do, you’ll love it” card. Gross. No, thanks.

My four-year-old is playing with a kid-safe nativity set that she keeps in her toy box. 

Four-Year-Old: “Can you help me find Jesus’s dad?”

Me: “Joseph isn’t Jesus’s dad. God is Jesus’s dad. Joseph is his stepdad.”

Four-Year-Old: “Can you help me find God?”