“You mean nothing to me!” — The scream of the stepdaughter cut deeper than any knife.
“You mean nothing to me!” shouted Natasha, slamming the door so the china in the cabinet trembled. The house fell into dead silence. Olivia sank onto the edge of a chair, gripping her mug, the tea inside long gone cold.
“Mum, what happened?” asked little Emily, peeking into the kitchen.
Olivia only shook her head. Tears glistened in her eyes.
“Natasha shouting again?”
“Her teacher called…” the woman whispered. “It’s nothing, never mind.”
Emily moved closer and wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders. “Don’t be upset, Mum. It’ll get better.” Though only thirteen, Emily carried a quiet wisdom beyond her years—sometimes, it seemed she was the older one, not Natasha, her fifteen-year-old stepsister.
Half an hour later, Daniel returned from work. The smell of dinner filled the house. Everyone sat at the table—except Natasha.
“Where is she?” he asked, glancing at the empty chair.
“Still sulking,” Emily replied, stirring her soup carefully.
Daniel looked at his wife. She lowered her eyes guiltily.
“Her teacher rang. Natasha’s failing every subject. I tried to talk to her…” Olivia trailed off, swallowing back tears.
Daniel stood and headed for his daughter’s room. He knocked.
“Go away!” came the muffled reply.
“It’s just me. Can I come in?”
The door cracked open. Natasha, checking no one was behind him, reluctantly let him inside.
“What’s this mess?” He frowned at the scattered clothes and empty takeaway box.
“Olivia keeps—” Natasha began, but he cut in.
“I spoke to Mrs. Thompson myself. You *are* failing. What’s going on?”
She stayed silent, shoving textbooks into her backpack.
“I don’t expect you to love Olivia, but you could at least respect her. You hurt her every day.”
“And she doesn’t hurt *me*? You took her and Emily to the shopping centre while I was stuck here alone!”
“Or did you forget I grounded you for sneaking out to your friend’s at midnight?”
“Of course! I’m the villain, and Emily’s perfect!”
“Enough!” Daniel’s voice sharpened. “You’ve gone too far!”
He walked out without waiting for a reply. Olivia sat at the kitchen table, hands clenched. Words stuck in her throat, but when Daniel met her gaze, she said nothing. After a long pause, she whispered, “I don’t know what to do anymore. She pushes me away—she’s jealous of you. I tried, Daniel… but I never became anyone she cared about.”
“I know, love,” he said, pulling her close. “But what now?”
“We should separate. Temporarily,” Olivia forced the words out.
“What?” He recoiled. “Are you serious?”
“Maybe if she has you to herself, she’ll—”
Natasha heard every word, pressed against the door. Hope flared in her chest. *Dad will be mine again.*
The next morning, Daniel told her they were moving back to their old flat. Emily burst into tears, storming into Natasha’s room.
“You hate my mum, and now you’re stealing my dad!” she screamed before slamming the door.
Natasha hadn’t expected this. At first, she reveled in it—until she realized how empty life felt without Olivia. No home-cooked meals. No help with homework. Daniel worked late, and Natasha burned pasta, scrubbed socks. He grew impatient, stern—nothing like Olivia, who’d stayed gentle even when Natasha screamed in her face.
Her birthday neared. Natasha decided to bake a cake. She mixed the batter, set the timer… but it burned. When Daniel came home, he found her crying over the charred sponge.
“Dad… let’s go back,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I love you… and Olivia… and Emily.”
“I love you too. But going back isn’t simple. We hurt them. We have to ask if they’ll forgive us.”
Natasha stayed silent, shame gnawing at her.
“You need to understand,” Daniel said slowly. “Olivia may not be your mother, but she deserves respect. And you *must* apologize.”
That night, Natasha couldn’t sleep. For the first time in months, anger didn’t drown her—just guilt, sharp and heavy. By morning, she asked Daniel to take her to Olivia and Emily.
She apologized—truly, tearfully—to Olivia first, then Emily. Days later, she whispered something she never had before: “*Mum*… I’m sorry.”
No one could say who cried harder in that moment.
In the end, she learned that love isn’t measured by blood but by the hands that stay open when yours close into fists.
