All the years of being treated like Cinderella. All the snarky remarks. All the extra duties.
All the times I had to wash Brandon’s crusty gym socks or pick up Sierra’s artificial lashes from the bathroom floor. It all hit me at once. So I turn off the burner.
Safety first. He he. I set down the spoon and stare Tracy dead in her overbotoxed expression.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, my voice unusually calm. “Brandon, who hasn’t earned a single dollar since graduation and spends his days yelling at 12-year-olds on Xbox, doesn’t have to pay rent. Sierra, who maxes out her credit cards buying Sheen Halls and has never touched a vacuum in her life, doesn’t have to pay rent, but I do.”
Tracy’s face twitches strangely, which is most likely due to Botox interfering with her facial muscles.
She starts talking about how I’m more established, how family helps family, and other nonsense she undoubtedly saw in a Facebook mom group. That was when I decided to detonate my own bomb. But first, I summoned everyone to the dining room.
I told Tracy I wanted to talk about this because her family used deceptive tactics against her. Haha. Brandon complained about leaving his game, while Sierra behaved as if getting off the couch was physical torment.
But gradually, everyone was seated at the table. I didn’t mind that the pasta was chilly by this point. I’d already lost my appetite.
Tracy begins explaining her plan to everyone, treating all officials as if she were the CEO. Brandon is smirking, most likely thinking about how he can spend his allowance on more V-Bucks now that I will be paying the bills. Sierra is capturing everything for her personal tale.
The girl enjoys drama as long as it doesn’t include her. And that is when I did it. That’s when I spoke the words that altered everything.
“I’m not paying rent because this house belongs to me.”
The hush that followed. OMG. I wish I had recorded it, folks.
I wish I had a photo of their faces. It was as if I had just spoken in an alien language. Brandon really stopped in the middle of his meal, his fork hanging there and spaghetti falling back into his plate.
Gross. Sierra’s jaw really dropped, and it was the first genuine look I had seen on her face since she found filters. But Tracy.
Oh man. Tracy’s reaction was priceless. You know the loading wheel that appears when your computer freezes?
That was her face. Her brain seemed to be unable to grasp what I had just spoken. Then they all began laughing.
Like full-fledged hysterical laughter. “Good one,” Brandon snorts, pasta sauce dripping down his chin. “Did you acquire that through Tik Tok or something?”
Sierra has already pulled out her phone, undoubtedly thinking this would be wonderful content for her relatable family moments series, which has about 50 followers tops.
Tracy is also attempting to laugh, but I can tell that panic is setting in. She has that face she gets when her credit card is refused at Nordstrom Rack, which happens more frequently than you may imagine. “What are you talking about?” She attempts to be dismissive, but her voice shakes.
“This house is mine and your father’s.”
This is where things start to get good. I simply recline back in my chair, attempting to exude that calm villain spirit, you know. I also say, “Why don’t you call and ask Dad?”
Tracy’s fake nails began pounding on her iPhone screen so quickly that I thought she might fracture it.
I kind of hoped she would, since guess who’d have to go get it fixed. GH. She puts it on speaker like she always does.
She enjoys an audience when she believes she is about to win an argument. The phone rings several times before Dad answers. He sounds fatigued, possibly because he was working while his stepson was developing his brand or something.
Tracy’s voice is pleasant and phony when she says “Mark,” as if she’s trying to gain an upgrade at a hotel. “Lucy is telling some interesting stories about the house. She says it belongs to her.
That’s not true, right?”
What about the stillness that followed? Deafening. You could literally hear my father clearing his throat when he was uncomfortable.
He does it frequently around Tracy. Then finally:
“Well, actually, my in-laws put the house in Lucy’s name before they passed away.”
Boom. Tracy’s face changed colors more than my previous mood ring.
First with Claire’s red, then white, and finally this strange greenish tint I’d never seen on a human before. “What do you mean they put it in her name?” she practically screams now. “When were you going to tell me this?”
“I didn’t think it was that important,” my father adds softly.
To be honest, this is a typical Dad move. Not important. Tracy is standing up now, her chair scraping against the floor.
“You didn’t think it was important to tell me that your teenage daughter owns our house?”
She hangs up on him mid-sentence. The phone hit the table so hard that I believed the screen would fracture again. I hoped it would.
Brandon is not laughing anymore. He becomes pale when he realizes that the game area he told me to leave was actually mine. Sierra is still recording, but her expression has changed to that of a deer in the headlights.
I can almost feel the Tik Tok drafts getting destroyed in her mind. Tracy is breathing as if she had just run a marathon in her false lubboutans. She’s trying to remain calm, but I can see her hands shaking.
“Well,” she continues, trying to sound cool, but failing miserably. “This has clearly been a misunderstanding. Of course, you don’t have to pay rent, Lucy.
Let’s just forget this conversation happened.”
But here’s something I didn’t want to forget. I was done forgetting all the nonsense they had put me through over the years. Done being the family doormat.
I’m tired of them living rentree in my house and treating me like a personal maid. So, I simply smiled and said, “Oh, we’re definitely not forgetting this conversation. In fact,” I paused for dramatic effect, “what can I say?
I’ve learned from the best. I think it’s time we had a serious discussion about your living situation.”
Tracy’s terrified expression. Better than any Christmas present I have ever received.
But wait, it gets even better. Because while they’re all sitting there processing their new reality, I can hear Tracy’s phone vibrating with texts from my father. She is ignoring it, but I know exactly what is going on.
He’s undoubtedly panicking and texting her about all the legal paperwork my grandparents left, which proves everything I’ve just said. Okay, so after the nuclear dinner scene, I went to bed feeling really good about myself. Have you ever felt empowered to confront a high school bully?
That’s how I felt after multiplying it by 1,000. What about Tracy? Oh, no.
She was not done. Definitely not. So, the next morning, as I’m about to go downstairs for breakfast, I hear Tracy’s voice coming from the kitchen.
She’s on the phone with my father on speaker because, of course. And guess what she is doing? Y’all, y’all.
This woman is literally attempting to persuade my father to let me move out of my own house. Here’s the conversation I overheard, which I captured on my phone. Because at this point, I trust these folks as far as I can throw them.
Tracy: “Mark, you have to do something about this problem. Your daughter is causing problems.”
Dad, sounding exhausted: “What do you want me to do, Tracy?”
Tracy: “How about the outofstate institutions she applied to? You could persuade her to attend one of them.
Tell her that it will benefit her independence.”
I swear to God what Schutzbah this woman has. She’s actually out here trying to ship me off to another state so she can continue to live in my house rentree. But wait, it gets better.
Dad said, “I don’t know, Tracy.”
Tracy, in that sugary honey voice she adopts when manipulating others: “Think about it, Mark. She’s young. She needs to experience life away from home.
And honestly,” pause, “I’m worried about her mental health. All this anger she’s carrying around, it’s not healthy.”
Excuse me. The only thing harming my mental health is living with the bad stepmother from every Disney film combined.
But here’s the part that really grabbed me. He said, “Maybe you’re right. I’ll talk to her about moving out for college.
It might be better for everyone.”
I literally had to bite my fist to stop shouting. My own father, whom I’ve lived with my entire life, who I cared for after Mom died, and who I cooked and cleaned for, has just
