Family Strife, No Joy at Home
“I hate him! He’s not my father! He can just leave—we’ll manage without him,” Lizzie fumed about her stepfather. I couldn’t understand the family feud. Why not just get along? Little did I know the bitterness brewing beneath the surface.
Lizzie had a younger half-sister, Emma, her mother and stepfather’s shared child. To me, the stepfather treated both girls the same. But appearances deceive. Lizzie never rushed home after school. She’d time it so her “enemy number one” had already left for work. If her timing failed and he was still there, she’d explode with rage.
She’d whisper to me, “He’s still here, Vicky. Stay in my room, okay?” Then she’d lock herself in the bathroom until he left. The moment the front door clicked shut, she’d emerge, sighing in relief. “Finally! You’re lucky, Vicky—living with your real dad. Me? I’m stuck like this.” She’d drag me to the kitchen for lunch.
Lizzie’s mum was a skilled homemaker. In that house, meals were sacred—breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner—all perfectly timed, balanced, and waiting under tea towels. No matter when I visited, there was always a warm meal ready.
Lizzie despised Emma, ten years her junior. She teased, picked fights, resented her. Years later, they’d become inseparable. Lizzie would marry, have a daughter, and eventually move the whole family—except the stepfather—to Israel. Years after, she’d have another daughter. Emma would remain unmarried but devoted to helping raise her nieces. Across the sea, the family would grow closer. Lizzie would write to her real father until his death—she was his only child, though he’d remarried.
Growing up with both parents, I never grasped why my friends resented their stepdads. But their lives weren’t easy.
Take Irene. Her mum and stepdad were hopeless drunks. Irene was ashamed, never inviting anyone over. She knew her stepdad would scold her, her mum would back him up, even slap her. But by fifteen, Irene could fight back, and they left her alone.
“Vicky, come to my birthday!” Irene beamed one day.
I hesitated. “To your house? Won’t your stepdad kick me out?”
“Let him try! His reign’s over. Mum gave me my real dad’s address—he’s my safety net now. Come, Vicky. Mum’s cooking.”
On Irene’s sixteenth, I rang her doorbell. She greeted me, dressed up. Inside, her parents stood stiffly by the table. I mumbled a greeting. They nodded.
The table was covered in a worn plastic cloth: a bowl of chicken curry, sliced bread, lemonade in mismatched glasses, and flaky pastries crumbling everywhere. Irene radiated pride.
I ate quietly, avoiding the messy pastries. Her parents just watched. In the corner, her grandmother groaned from bed, “Don’t drink too much, or you’ll forget my dinner.”
“Gran, it’s just lemonade,” Irene muttered.
The old woman turned to the wall, sighing.
After awkward thanks, we fled. Youth had better things to do than sit with the elderly.
Within a year, Irene would lose her mum, stepdad, and gran. By 25, she’d be alone—never marrying, childless. Suitors came, but nothing stuck. One was even my ex-husband. She’d take him in briefly, but it fizzled. Maybe Irene’s temper was the problem.
Then there was Tanya. At 14, she lived with her older sister Anna, who seemed impossibly grown at 18—strict, serious, untouchable. Their mum visited weekly with groceries, cooking meals before returning to her first husband. Anna was from that marriage; Tanya, the second. Mum had left Tanya’s dad and gone back to her ex.
I envied Tanya’s freedom. Her mum, drowning in guilt, let her run wild. Anna had boyfriends; Tanya had no rules.
Tanya would marry, have a daughter, then watch her husband go to prison. She’d drink herself to death by 42, found by Anna.
Then there was Nicky, the new girl in Year 10. Gorgeous, melodic-voiced, every boy’s crush. But she only had eyes for her boyfriend, Chris, who’d whisk her away after school in his car.
Nicky’s dad died when she was nine. She struggled in class but sang like an angel. She and Chris formed a band, performing at school dances.
When Chris enlisted, Nicky cried at the station—then promptly had another man’s baby. Chris forgave her after his service, but she refused him: “You’ll throw the boy in my face forever. I’d rather be alone.”
Years later, her son grown, she’d marry a farmer and vanish into village life.
I stayed friends with all of them, though they despised each other.
Now, I occasionally message Lizzie, my childhood ally, oceans apart. She writes of protecting her own family at all costs: “I won’t let my girls endure what I did with that stepfather. If you must fight, fight with blood—not a stranger. A real family heals. He scarred me for life.”
Sometimes, we laugh over old school antics.
As for Irene and Nicky? Their trails have gone cold.
Time smooths jagged edges, but some cracks never fully mend. A home divided may stand—but never whole.
