Time To Leave Ol’ Stepdad In The Dust

I’m fourteen. My mom has just married a rich guy; suddenly, we are in a bigger house with nicer decorative objects.

I clean for personal satisfaction because my dad is a hoarder and I don’t have anything else to do when I visit him on weekends; it’s the 1990s and the library is a long walk. I clean unasked. However, my stepfather feels entitled to my labor.

One of my new chores is to dust this fancy wooden statue [Stepfather] has. He has many, actually. There are a lot of things to dust and mop, but I take pride in my work.

Stepfather: *Banging on my door* “You need to dust again!”

Me: “I’ll be up in a minute!”

Stepfather: “No! When I say now, I mean now! Don’t make me come down there!”

I’m in the middle of a math problem, and I know he has trouble with the stairs to the basement, so I silently wrap it up and head up in the time it would’ve taken to argue.

Stepfather: “How dare you make me wait?!”

Me: “I was in the middle of something.”

Stepfather: “Unacceptable!”

Me: “…is there an area I missed when dusting?”

Holding my temper with this guy is difficult as a young teenager but prudent.

He stomps over to the fancy wooden statue.

Stepfather: “Are you doing this on purpose?”

I look at the statue with its shining wood polish.

Me: “I dusted that on purpose, yes. Please be more specific.”

Stepfather: “You didn’t get in his grooves.”

Me: “…”

Stepfather: “His grooves will get all funky.”

Me: *Pauses* “Look. I don’t know how to clean in there.”

Stepfather: “Ugh, I thought you were good at cleaning!”

Me: “You’re the one who bought a wrinkly old man and refuses to take responsibility for cleaning the wrinkles.”

I tried to troubleshoot methods such as a soft toothbrush, but [Stepfather] would have none of it. I moved out within the year for more significant reasons. I can only hope he figured out how to clean grooves.