Dad had gotten remarried a few months back, and his new wife, Mirabel, made sure I felt like I didn’t belong in my own house. She wasn’t a cartoon-villain kind of wicked, not like the stepmothers you see in movies, but she had this sharp way of grinning while chipping away at your confidence.

“Oh, Serenya, is that really what you’re wearing? Honey, I’d rethink that!” or “I’m sure your father will shower you with gifts again. He always does, doesn’t he? That won’t last forever.”

And to top it off, every word dripped with that syrupy-sweet tone that made my stomach twist.