The Step-Daughter

The end arrived during a Christmas party whilst my mother was away. Said party was being held at a friend's, a church friend. I must've been nineteen by then, increasingly fed up with my step-father's behaviours towards myself, my mother and my younger brother. We, as a family unit, had been devolving for years now, the cancer of it metastasizing until the whole of 'us' was being crippled by it.

I don't know at what point he stopped loving us. I'm not sure when it became reality and not just imaginative angst. I'm not sure when I realized that the noises from my mother's bedroom were of discomfort and not pleasure. We had all been miserable for years by this point and I can't tell you the origin. I don't know when it was that we began to fall apart, eroding from our former selves. I only recognized the end of it.

I remember it wasn't particularly cold. Unusual for the time of year. I tried to look nice, I always tried. Always trying to be prettier than I was in the hopes of snagging a husband to rescue me from the constant depression and the thumb of my step-father. When we arrived there were people we hadn't met before, children and already married men.

My step-father handled the introductions at that point.

"This is my daughter, Hannah." he said. "And this is my step-daughter, Sarai."

I don't remember if he introduced Christopher at all. I had been stabbed, murdered right in front of these strangers, though I gave no outward sign. For the first time, in 15 years, my "father" had introduced me as his step-daughter, not his daughter.

I had always fought against being called his daughter as a young girl. I had so romanticized my "real" father in my head that there was no room for any other man. Though I called him "dad" from a young age. He was never my "father." He was my "step-father." He was the one always pushing for me to drop the step. He had always wanted me to introduce myself as his daughter. I did, eventually, concede the point and consent to being called by his last name, even though he never legally made it mine. My whole identity became inexplicably intertwined with his.

I remember telling my "friends" once that my real last name was actually Lillie. The shock, was palpable. Even now I still have to identify myself by his last name. I am not known on my own. I doubt that I ever was.

I realized, with that punch, that it was the end. The end of everything we'd had for fifteen years. It was the first of several.

At the end of the day, the "friends" gave presents to everyone. Except myself and my brother. When Hannah asked why Christopher and I had received no presents it was met with silence. Awkward silence. Artificial apologies were given and my brother and I brushed it off, as if we hadn't just been rejected with finality. My step-father made no comment. We shrugged off the wounds this made, though the scars are ever present if you take a look at my insides.

Looking back, there were signs along the way. So many glaring neon absurdities dazzling the road to this point that I must've been blind to not notice. They'd been a long time coming, how had I not seen them?

We were abused. Emotionally, physically, mentally. We had been ignored, beaten and tortured all along that road. Never realizing that something was so desperately wrong. We had struggled, rising up like a tide, only to be smashed back into the sand every time. We were weights, burdens, nothing precious.

The end came in the form of a word. A word spoken during a party. A party I hadn't even wanted to go to. Surrounded by strangers and semi-strangers. The most hated word I've ever been called, uttered in such a trivial way, as if it wouldn't hurt.

"This is my step-daughter."