I always knew my stepmother would find a way to ruin my brother’s wedding. But how she went about it was a bit much, even for her. However, what she didn’t anticipate was that it would be her last performance ever.
What you need to understand about my stepmother, Linda, is that she had a knack for making everything about her, even if it meant burning bridges she pretended not to care about. But I never thought she’d take aim at Grandma. And I never thought she’d pick the absolute worst moment to do it.
I’m Natalie, 26 years old, and the oldest of two. When our mom died, I was 11 and my brother Jacob was just seven. It was a sudden aneurysm, one moment she was tucking us in, the next morning she was gone.
I still remember how quiet the house became after that, and how quickly Grandma stepped in. Her name is Ruth, but no one calls her that. To us, she is Grandma, but more than that, she was and is comfort, routine, and safety.
She’s my late mother’s mother, who practically raised us after the funeral. It was Grandma who packed our school lunches, who sewed my prom dress, and sat through every baseball game and every school play. She wasn’t just a grandmother to us; she became our anchor and our home.
When Dad couldn’t speak without choking up, she was the one who sat on the edge of my bed and told me I’d be okay. When Jacob had night terrors, she was the one who sang softly until he fell asleep. Two years after Mom’s funeral, Dad remarried.
That’s how Linda got into the picture. I was 13 and suspicious, and Jacob didn’t quite understand what was happening. All he knew was that Dad had stopped bringing flowers to Mom’s grave, and someone new was sitting in her chair at dinner.
Linda never did anything overtly cruel, at least not at first. She was passive-aggressive in that way you’d expect from someone who resented playing second fiddle to a memory. But it wasn’t only the dead she competed with; it became clear fast that she hated Grandma.
My stepmother would roll her eyes when Grandma visited, and she’d make these awful remarks under her breath. Like, “Should we dust Grandma off before dinner?” or, “Someone’s got that old lady perfume on again. Is it Miss mothballs and misery again?”
We’d laugh it off when we were kids, but it started eating away at me as we got older.
Especially since Dad never said a word. He’d just sigh and change the subject. I once asked him, “Why don’t you say something when she mocks Grandma?” And he just looked tired.
Not angry or defensive, just exhausted. “She’s not your mother,” he finally said. “She’s trying.
That’s more than most would do.”
But she wasn’t trying. Not at all! I mean, this woman never packed a lunch, never helped with homework, and never showed up to a single game or recital!
If I were running a fever, it was Grandma who brought soup and held my hand. If Jacob was heartbroken after a breakup in high school, Grandma was the one who bought him a tub of ice cream and listened. Linda, whose jabs at Grandma we learned to ignore, existed in the periphery.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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