**Family Strife Makes a House Unlived-In**
*I hate him! He’s not my father! Let him clear off. We’ll manage without him.* Lisa was seething with fury towards her stepfather. I couldn’t fathom the conflict—why not just get along? Little did I know the storm raging beneath that roof.
Lisa had a younger half-sister, Edith, her mother’s child with the stepfather. From my outsider’s view, he treated both girls the same. But Lisa never hurried home after school. She’d time her return for when her “enemy number one” had left for work. If her timing was off and he was still there, she’d lose her cool.
Whispering to me, she’d say, *He’s home! Vicky, stay in my room.* Then she’d lock herself in the bathroom until he left. The moment the front door shut, she’d emerge, sighing in relief. *Finally! You’re lucky, Vicky—you’ve got your real dad. I’m stuck with this.* Her voice wavered. *Come on, let’s eat.*
Lisa’s mum was a brilliant homemaker. Meals were sacred in that house—breakfast, lunch, tea, supper, all perfectly timed, balanced, and warming under tea towels till eaten. Whenever I visited, a hot meal was waiting.
Lisa loathed Edith, a decade younger. She’d tease her, provoke her, even slap her. Years later, they’d be inseparable. Lisa would marry, have a daughter, then move to Australia with her family—all except the stepfather. Twelve years on, she’d have another girl. Edith would never marry but help raise her nieces. Abroad, they’d grow closer than ever. Lisa kept in touch with her real father till his death. His second wife never gave him children—Lisa remained his only daughter.
Growing up with both parents, I never grasped why my friends resented their stepdads. But life hadn’t been kind to them.
Eileen’s mum and stepdad were hopeless drunks. She never invited anyone over, ashamed of the shouting, the slap-happy chaos. But by fifteen, she’d learned to hit back—they left her alone.
*Vicky, come to my birthday!* she announced one day.
*Your house?* I hesitated. *Won’t your stepdad kick me out?*
*Let him try! Mum gave me my real dad’s address—he’s my safety net now.*
Her sixteenth arrived. I brought a gift, knocked, and found Eileen dolled up at the door. Inside, her parents stood stiffly by a table draped in a faded oilcloth. A bowl of shepherd’s pie, sliced bread, and lemonade in mismatched glasses—with crumbling shortbread balanced on the rims. Barely a feast, but Eileen beamed with pride.
I ate politely, avoiding crumbs. Her parents just watched. In the corner, her gran wheezed from the bed, *Don’t drink, girl, or you’ll forget my supper.* Eileen flushed. *It’s just lemonade, Gran.*
We fled as soon as we could—youth has better places to be than nursing homes.
Eileen would lose her mum, stepdad, and gran within a year. At twenty-five, alone, she’d never marry or have kids. Suitors came and went, including—briefly—my ex-husband. She took him in after our split, but nothing stuck. Maybe some folks are just hard to love.
Then there was Tanya. At fourteen, she lived with her older sister, Annie, who seemed impossibly grown at eighteen—stern, no-nonsense. Their mum visited weekly with groceries, cooking meals before returning to her first husband. Annie was from that first marriage; Tanya, the second. Their mum had left Tanya’s dad swiftly, returning to her ex. I envied Tanya’s freedom—her mum’s guilt meant no rules, no curfews.
She’d marry young, have a daughter, then lose her husband to prison. Drink would claim her by forty-two. Annie would find her body.
Lastly, Nicky—the new girl in Year Ten. Pretty, sharp-featured, with a voice like honey. The lads ogled, but she had Conor, her older beau, who’d whisk her away in his car after school.
Her dad had died when she was nine. She barely scraped through classes but sang like an angel. She and Conor formed a band, playing at school dances. When he enlisted, she wept at the station—then got pregnant by someone else.
Conor forgave her after his service, asked her to come away with him. She refused. *You’d throw the boy in my face forever. I’d rather be alone.*
Her son grown, she’d marry a farmer, vanish into the countryside.
These girls were my circle, though they couldn’t stand each other. Now, only Lisa remains in my life—exchanging letters from Australia, swearing she’ll shield her girls from stepfamily wounds. *If you must row, row with blood. A stepdad leaves scars no time can heal.*
Sometimes we laugh over school mischief. As for the others? Gone like footprints in the rain.
