When I stopped to buy a knitted rabbit from the elderly lady at the corner, I had no idea how this would disrupt my stepmother Eloïse’s plans. This simple gesture triggered a chain of events, unveiling secrets that Eloïse had tried to hide. That was when everything began to change.
Since my husband’s death, every day had been a struggle. I had to juggle a demanding job while trying to raise my five-year-old daughter, Maisie, on my own. I constantly felt like I was failing
She was staring at the bowl of cereal in front of Maisie.
“It’s quick, and it’s what we have,” I muttered, ignoring Eloïse’s glaring look.
“Quick is not enough,” Eloïse snapped.
My son wanted more for his daughter. You need to take better care of her, Ophélie. This house is a mess!”
I felt her words sting like icy darts. She never helped, never offered to make breakfast or get Maisie ready. She only criticized and did nothing else.
I grabbed Maisie’s backpack, holding back the retort I wanted to shout.
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