My parents were, and still are, pretty irresponsible. Despite being married, both Dad and Mom slept around a lot. In fact, Dad fathered a few illegitimate children during this time. 

They eventually divorced when I was fourteen, which shocked nobody. The only thing shocking was that they stayed together that long.

For most of my childhood, Dad’s sister essentially raised my sister and me. After the divorce, [Aunt] wound up with custody over us, as neither parent was willing to surrender custody to the other — not because they genuinely cared about us, but because fighting for custody meant that the other person would have to compromise more in the divorce.

They eventually remarried to different people, both of whom had children of their own from previous marriages.

And no, neither parent is on speaking terms. In fact, I’m probably the only person, apart from my aunt, whom both of them still routinely talk to. Even then, [Aunt] (and my sister) have basically walked away from the whole mess and essentially consider both Mom and Dad strangers.

My cousin and I are now trying to figure out how many siblings I have.

Cousin: “So, there’s [Full Sister]; that’s one.”

Me: “Then there are Dad’s illegitimate kids. How many again? I’ve lost count.”

Cousin: “Mom told me that there were three.”

Me: “All right, that’s four.”

Cousin: “Half siblings?”

Me: “Mom has two boys, and Dad has two girls.”

Cousin: “I always get them confused. They were all born so close to each other.”

Me: “No kidding. If Mom and Dad send them to the same school, good odds they’ll be classmates.”

Cousin: “Huh, that really is weird. Anywho, we’re at eight now.”

Me: “Yeah. Stepsiblings now, I guess.”

Cousin: “How many?”

Me: *Counting on my fingers* “Mom’s husband has three girls. Dad’s wife has one of each.”

Cousin: “Thirteen! Wow, that’s a lot.”

Me: “Fourteen. You forgot to count yourself.”

Cousin: “But I’m just your cousin.”

Me: “Your mom basically raised me and my sister single-handedly. She’s the closest thing to a mother figure we have. So yes, the final count is fourteen.”

Cousin: *Blushing* “S***. Thanks, mate.”

She punches me affectionately.

Cousin: *Frowns* “Huh… Wait, does that mean that I’ve jumped from being an only child to having fourteen siblings?”

I pause.

Me: “I genuinely cannot answer that question.”

I pause again.

Me: “Well, there’s [Full Sister] and me, so that’s at least two. We’ll figure out the other twelve another day.”

Cousin: *Shrugs* “Works for me.”

My parents are given, as something of a joke, a life-size cardboard cutout of a certain former President of the United States. After having it in the living room for a couple of weeks and thoroughly amusing everyone who sees it, they put it in their basement, where I at least forget about it entirely.

A year or so later, my best friend and I go to the hardware store and pick up salt tablets for my parents’ water softener. We bring them into the garage, which has a secondary entrance to the basement, and I go to open the door and turn on the light. I promptly scream and run out again.

A moment later, my stepfather — whose home office is adjacent to the garage — bursts through his door looking alarmed.

Stepdad: “Are you all right?!”

Me: *Embarrassed* “Yeah…”

Stepdad: “What happened?”

Me: “We got the tablets for your water softener. I went to open the basement door and Donald Trump scared me.”

He cracked up laughing and went back to work. Apparently, the same thing happens every time they have someone come and work on their heating system.

My mother wasn’t married to my stepfather of twenty-plus years. He maintained an apartment by his workplace, a couple of hours away, and only saw her on weekends and holidays.

When she passed away suddenly and I was sorting her apartment, my stepfather and I did our best, but we had a few conflicts about what belonged to whom and so forth. He still visited on weekends to help out. This was decades ago, hence the old-fashioned tech.

We both returned after being out separately.

Stepfather: “Hey, did you take the twenty that was by my bed?”

Me: “No.”

Stepfather: “I don’t mind if you did. Just tell me, all right?”

Me: “I didn’t even know it was there.”

Stepfather: “Okay. Did you put my pillowcases in when you did laundry? They’re not on the bed.”

Me: *Confused* “No…”

Stepfather: “And, look, I’m not going to stop you from taking your mother’s things, but come on. Did you have to take both VCRs?”

I definitely wouldn’t have packed things I used while I staying there, let alone touched his stuff. None of it made sense. Until it did.

Me: “I didn’t… Oh! We were robbed!”

And yeah, we were. It seems that’s all they took: money and tech and pillowcases to carry it in. It was totally worth losing some stuff to ease tensions until we got the apartment cleared out.

My mother has been looking for a customized Christmas gift for my step-dad for a while. His name is Mark, which is fairly common, so there are a lot of options. She decides to go for one that isn’t just the name, to make it a little more special.

On Christmas morning, my step-dad unwraps a coffee mug and reads it out. 

Step-Dad: “‘The man, the myth, the legend…’”

My mom smiles wide, happy that the gift arrived on time.

Step-Dad: “‘…Kyle.'”

My mom was devastated that the wrong name was printed on the mug, but the rest of us were dying laughing. The Kyle mug is proudly displayed in our kitchen.

Each year at family Christmas, I notice the same thing: as we arrive with our kids, my husband’s stepmother tells him that she needs milk. She always conveniently forgets to buy it when shopping the day before, so he diligently goes out in search of an open store. Most shops and even gas stations close on Christmas Day, so he often takes up to an hour trying to locate a shop. We try asking for her to let us know before we leave home, and my husband often calls to let them know we are on our way.

One year, I’ve had enough. I buy an extra two litres of milk myself and we take that with us on Christmas. As we walk in, my husband is greeted with:

Stepmother: “[Husband], you have to go out and get some milk.”

He holds the bottle up in triumph. We do the same the next year.  

Stepmother: “Oh, good, you have the milk! But now you have to go out and get some ice.”

The year after, I buy milk and ice. My husband complains that it takes up too much room in the freezer and asks me why I bought it. Christmas Day, he enters his parents’ house.

Stepmother: “We need milk.”

[Husband] holds up the bottle.

Stepmother: “Okay, but we need ice, too.”

Grinning, [Husband] holds up the bag of ice.

The following year, we get a phone call at 8:00 am. My husband answers the call.  

Husband: “That was [Stepmother]; she needs me to bring over some lemons right now for some recipe she’s making. You get the kids ready and I will be back as soon as I can.”

Me: “Okay, you might as well take the milk and ice with you now.”

Husband: “They got those yesterday. I think she does this on purpose.”

Almost two hours later, he returns. When we go over at lunchtime, I look at the food served and notice that none of it could have been made with lemons. My husband asks about it and is told that they needed them for the seafood breakfast they had with his sister and brother-in-law.

Husband: “Why couldn’t [Brother-In-Law] go out and get the lemons? He’s got a car.”

Stepmother: “Oh, we all had too much to drink.”

Husband: “It was eight am!”

Stepmother: “We started drinking at six. Anyway, you don’t drink, so we knew you would do it. It’s your fault you don’t drink.”

We didn’t go for Christmas the next year.