Living with my dad and his new wife, Trudy, has been a rollercoaster from day one. She’s been in our lives for about two years, and she’s perfected the art of entitlement. Honestly, if you looked up “self-centered” in the dictionary, her photo would probably be there. Life with Trudy feels like a never-ending reality show—one where I don’t get paid and no one’s filming my struggles.
Dad tries to stay out of the way, operating on the “happy wife, happy life” philosophy. But Trudy? She’s never satisfied. She expects the world to bend to her whims, and her whims are… endless.
Enter Trudy’s 45th Birthday.
She went all out, treating the house like a five-star venue. Caterers were running around, floral arrangements covered every flat surface, and I was stuck doing chores in the background—setting up drink stations, wiping down surfaces, and otherwise pretending I didn’t exist.
A few days before the party, she cornered me in the kitchen while I was making a smoothie.
“You’d better get me something special this year, Mia,” she said, with the air of royalty. “A dishwasher would be nice. After all, I’ve done so much for you.”
Oh, sure. She’s done so much for me… if you count bossing me around like I’m her unpaid servant.
“I’m saving up for prom,” I explained.
Her reaction was priceless. She looked at me like I’d just insulted her personally.
“Prom dress? Ridiculous! You can just get something cheap. A dishwasher is much more practical. No excuses!”
Excuses? Really? I had been working for months babysitting kids in the neighborhood to save for my dress—hardly enough to cover a new appliance. Yet there I was, expected to drop my savings on something she decided she needed.
The day of the party, the house was buzzing. Trudy strutted around like a celebrity, soaking up compliments while I floated around in the background, topping up drinks and avoiding eye contact. When it was time for cake, she tapped her wine glass and gave me that expectant glare.
“Mia! Since you didn’t get me a dishwasher, you can wash all these dishes. It’s only fair.”
Cue my jaw hitting the floor. Twenty pairs of eyes were on me.
“I told you I couldn’t afford it,” I said.
“Just wash the dishes. Do something useful for once,” she snapped.
So I did. For over an hour, I scrubbed, rinsed, and dried while imagining the day I would finally be free from this madness. By the time I collapsed into bed that night, I was physically and emotionally drained.
Enter Karma.
The next morning, I woke to Trudy’s screams from the kitchen. Apparently, in her attempt to handle leftover party chaos, she had created a disaster: burnt food, overflowing sinks, and a flooded floor. The smell of burnt plastic and chaos filled the air.
“Oh, my kitchen! This will cost a fortune!” she wailed.
Dad stepped in. “Trudy, did you pour meat oils down the sink and then add drain cleaner?”
“Yes!” she admitted.
“And now the pipes are ruined,” he said, incredulous.
I tried not to laugh. Honestly, karma had arrived in full force. Trudy, who treated me like a servant the night before, was now facing a monumental mess of her own making. I said nothing, just watched as she flailed helplessly.
The kitchen repairs cost a small fortune, and Dad made a decision that made my week:
“Except for Mia,” he said. “Here’s $500 for her prom dress.”
Trudy’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “You’re serious?”
“Yes. She earned it herself. You spent all your time and money on your party. Mia should enjoy something too.”
That week, Trudy even softened a bit, allowing me to take a part-time job and even offering to come with me to pick out my dress. Whether it lasts, though? Only time will tell.