My stepdad, Jeff, always walked around like he owned everything—the house, the remote, the conversation. He never let us forget he was the “provider,” often reminding us that without him, “the lights wouldn’t be on.” Every evening, he’d sink into his recliner, pat his stomach, and declare, “You’re all lucky I’m here.” My mom, Jane, would give a small nod. Not because she agreed, but because she preferred peace over confrontation. Raised to avoid conflict, she rarely stood up for herself, even when the rest of us could see how deeply his words affected her.
We—Chloe, Lily, Anthony, and I—grew up watching her shrink under his heavy presence. We urged her for years to leave, but she stayed.
Even after we moved out, we remained close. Chloe and I visited often, and Anthony, though living far away, made sure to call. We thought we’d seen all of Jeff’s antics—until Mom’s birthday rolled around.
Jeff hyped up his “surprise” gift for weeks. “She’s gonna love it,” he kept saying with a proud grin. I wanted to believe it, but history told me not to get my hopes up.
The day arrived. We gathered in the living room with our gifts. Mom opened them with a grateful smile. Then Jeff handed her a large, beautifully wrapped box. She looked hopeful—like a teenager about to read a love note.
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