I’m ashamed of how I reacted.
Something in me snapped.
“I’m not trying to replace your mother,” I shot back, my voice rising. “But I’ve been here for five years. I’ve cooked for you, helped you with school, stayed up when you were sick—and this is how you treat me?”
Her eyes filled with tears, but instead of softening, I hardened.
“You know what?” I added, my voice breaking. “If you hate me so much, stop pretending around me. But don’t expect me to keep trying if all you want to do is mock me behind my back.”
She stormed off to her room, slamming the door. I sat there shaking—not just from anger, but from guilt. I had wanted to understand her, to build a bridge. Instead, I’d burned it.
