Growing up without a mom leaves a hole that time never really heals. Mine passed away when I was seven, and for a long time, life just didn’t make sense — until Grandma June stepped in.
She became my whole world — nurse, teacher, best friend. Every scraped knee, every bad grade, every heartbreak ended with her gentle voice telling me everything would be okay.
When I was ten, Dad remarried Carla. Grandma welcomed her with open arms — baked pies, brought gifts, even made her a handmade quilt. But Carla barely looked at it before setting it aside like trash. That’s when I knew: she didn’t like Grandma.
Carla was all about appearances — designer bags, fake smiles, and weekly manicures. Online, she was the picture-perfect stepmom. Offline, she was cold, controlling, and couldn’t stand how close I was to Grandma. She said Grandma “spoiled” me and made me weak.
By high school, her mask was perfect for social media — family photos, fake captions about being “blessed.” But the real version of her? She could barely look me in the eye.
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