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When I was seven, my mother passed away. Dad told me at the time that the angels had taken her to heaven because she'd been suffering so much, and God didn't want to see her in any more pain. I ate it up, because Dad seemed to know so much, and a seven year old girl wouldn't know as much as a grown up.
At the time, he seemed very sad, and I often heard him crying at night after Mum had passed away, but at the funeral, a woman in a long red dress came up to me, hugged me tightly, and told me she was to be my new mother. I remembered staring at her in shock and telling her - loudly - that my mother was in heaven with the angels. Everyone fell silent, and Dad got a look on his face that I learned to dread as I got older. He hurried over, took the woman's hand and told me that this was his fiance, Mary, and they were to be married in spring, a mere three months later.
Later, he smacked me with his belt for the first time, telling me I was a disgrace, and how dare I upset his fiance? Through my sobs, I apologised over and over, and he hugged me afterwards. That set the tone for our relationship going forwards. I'd do something to "shame" him, he'd hit and lecture me, and then hug me afterwards as I tearfully apologised for making him so sad.
Mary made things ten times worse. She never hit me, but she punished me in other ways that made me wish for a good walloping from Dad's belt. Often she'd make me stand in the corner, facing the wall, and I wasn't allowed to do anything except stand there and stare at the peeling brown paint. I wasn't allowed to cough, burp, sneeze, or even scratch my arms if I got an itch. If I needed to pee, I had to do it on the carpet, and of course, I was made to stand there even longer, with my pants and underwear soaked, a puddle around my ankles, and the smell of wet carpet almost making me want to throw up.
Naturally, after I was finally allowed to leave my corner, I was made to apologise to my parents for disgracing them, and I had to mean it, lest I be made to go stand in the corner again. Dad accepted my apology, but Mary really dug in, until she was satisfied that I was sincere. Only then was I allowed to go and wash myself.
Making me go without food was another favourite tactic of Mary's, but when people in dark suits came around to the house, that stopped - I'd complained of hunger pangs at school, and my teacher had immediately reported it to child services. My parents were warned not to deprive me again, and - you guessed - I was punished heftily afterwards. Mary never dared deprive me of food again after that, but you can bet she made up for it. Rather than make me stand in the corner, she had me strip down and stand in front of her and Dad. I wasn't allowed to cover myself - every time I tried to, Mary would slap my hands and tell me I had no right to feel ashamed - and she and Dad went about their business, leaving me naked and humiliated in the middle of the living room.
To say this did things to my brain was an understatement, but I was told it was what I deserved for being such a brat, according to Mary, and I had no right to feel hurt or confused. Luckily, Dad realised, after three years of this, that Mary was doing horrendous amounts of damage to me, and he sent her packing. Once she was out of the house, Dad packed us up and moved us out to the countryside, where I began to get better. I underwent months of counselling to get my mind back on track, and Dad admitted he was wrong to take out his frustrations on me at the start, as well as letting Mary punish me as horribly as she had. It took me quite a while to forgive him, but he never pushed me, giving me the space I needed to sort myself out and get myself back on track.
When Dad met Angela two years later, I feared history might repeat itself, and I was understandably wary around her. Dad sat me down and told me I had good reason to be wary, because even he was a bit worried about letting another woman in after what Mary had done to us. Angela, however, was patient and kind, and she never rushed Dad or I, letting us warm to her on her own merits. It took us all at least a year to get used to each other, but when Angela helped me through the start of puberty, I marched up to Dad and told him that if he didn't marry Angela, I'd disown in, using all the thirteen-year-old sass I could muster.
Dad saw sense, and just before my fourteenth birthday, I had a new stepmother who was much more of a mother to me than Mary had been. I even called her Mum, because she was definitely the mum type, and I liked to think my deceased mum was smiling down from heaven.
But all of it came to a crashing halt when Angela's daughters came into our lives.
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