“I hate him! He’s not my father! He can just clear off. We’ll manage without him,” Lizzie fumed, her anger toward her stepfather boiling over.
I never understood their family feud. Why couldn’t they just get along? I had no idea what dark undercurrents ran beneath the surface.
Lizzie had a younger half-sister, Edith—her mother and stepfather’s shared child. To me, the stepfather treated both girls the same. But that was just how it looked from the outside. In truth, Lizzie never rushed home from school. She’d time it so her worst enemy—her hated stepfather—would already be at work. But if her timing was off and he was still home, she’d fly into a rage.
She’d whisper to me, *”He’s still here! Vicky, stay in my room.”* Then she’d lock herself in the bathroom and wait for him to leave. The moment the front door clicked shut, she’d burst out, sighing with relief.
“Finally, he’s gone! You’re lucky, Vicky—living with your real dad. Me? I’m stuck with this mess.” She’d sigh heavily. “Come on, let’s get some lunch.”
Lizzie’s mum was a proper homemaker. In their house, food was sacred—breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, all timed perfectly, balanced right. Whenever I visited, there was always a hot meal waiting, pots covered with tea towels, ready to be served.
Lizzie hated Edith, ten years younger. She’d pick on her, tease her, even fight her. Years later, though, they’d become inseparable. Lizzie would marry, have a daughter, and eventually, the whole family—except her stepfather—would move to Australia.
Twelve years later, Lizzie would have another daughter. Edith wouldn’t marry, but she’d help raise her nieces. In that far-off country, their family would grow even tighter. Lizzie would write to her real father until he died. He’d remarried, and Lizzie was his only child.
Growing up in a proper family—mum and dad both there—I still had mates with stepdads. Back then, I didn’t get why they resented them. Turns out, life wasn’t kind to them.
Sarah’s mum and stepdad were hopeless drunks. She was ashamed of them, never invited anyone over. Knew her stepdad would start shouting, her mum would back him up, maybe even slap her. But once Sarah turned sixteen, she could handle herself. They stopped bothering her.
“Vicky, come round for my birthday,” Sarah said, grinning.
I blinked. “To your house? I dunno… Won’t your stepdad kick off?”
“Let him try! His reign’s over. Mum gave me my real dad’s address. He’s got my back now. Come—Mum’s cooking.” Sarah had never sounded so confident.
Her birthday came. I brought a gift, knocked on her door.
Sarah stood there, dressed up. “Hey! Get in, sit down.”
Her mum and stepdad hovered by the table. I mumbled a hello; they nodded stiffly.
The table was covered in a worn-out plastic cloth. A big bowl of rice and meat, sliced bread on a plate, fizzy pop in tumblers. A few sad pastries crumbling on top. Sarah beamed like it was a feast.
*Blimey, what do they eat normally?* I thought, remembering my own birthdays—mum cooking all day, plates piled high with meat, pies, cake, juice. Well, every house has its own way.
I ate politely, didn’t touch the pastry—too messy. Sarah’s parents just stood there, watching. In the corner, her gran lay on a bed.
“Linda, don’t drink, or you’ll forget to feed me,” the old woman croaked.
Sarah flushed. “Gran, it’s just pop. No booze.”
The old lady grunted, rolled toward the wall.
“Thanks for the food,” I said, standing.
We bolted. At sixteen, who wants to sit with old folks?
Sarah lost her mum, stepdad, and gran that same year. By twenty-five, she was alone. Never married, no kids. A few blokes courted her—even my ex-husband—but nothing stuck. Maybe she was just hard to live with.
Then there was Emily, my mate at fourteen. She lived with her older sister, Alice—eighteen, stern, grown-up.
Their mum visited weekly, bringing groceries, cooking. She’d left her second husband—Emily’s dad—and gone back to her first, Alice’s father. I envied Emily her freedom. Her mum was too busy making amends, Alice too busy with lads to mind her.
Emily married young, had a daughter. Then her husband got locked up. She drank herself to death—Alice found her at forty-two.
Lastly, there was Mia, who joined our class at sixteen. Gorgeous, a proper stunner. The lads gawped, but she only had eyes for Charlie. He’d pick her up after school in his car, whisk her off somewhere.
Mia’s dad died when she was little. She was rubbish at school but sang like an angel. She and Charlie even did gigs at school dances.
When Charlie got called up for national service, Mia cried at the station. Didn’t wait for him, though—had a baby by some mystery man, moved back with her mum.
Charlie forgave her when he got back, asked her to come with him.
“No,” she said. “You’ll throw the lad in my face forever. I’d rather be alone.”
Later, she’d marry a farmer, move to the countryside.
I was mates with all of them—though they hated each other.
Now, I only write to Lizzie sometimes. She’s in Australia, swears she’ll keep her family together.
“Don’t want my girls suffering like I did,” she says. “If you’re going to row, do it with your real dad—not some stranger. Blood sorts itself out. That stepdad scarred me for life.”
Sometimes we laugh about school.
Sarah and Mia? Gone. Lost to time.
