You know that awful feeling when someone takes you for granted? I’m Diana, and for three exhausting months, I felt like a live-in maid in my own home. My grown stepdaughter treated the place like a dumping ground and acted like I was hired to clean up after her. Eventually, I had to remind her — even patience has a limit.
Tom, my husband, and I had spent over a decade building something special: a warm, welcoming home on Redwood Lane filled with laughter, quiet Sunday mornings, pancakes, and crossword puzzles.
My son Rick, from a previous marriage, was thriving in college. And Tom’s daughter, Kayla — 22 and recently graduated — hovered at the edge of our lives.
I’d made the effort. Really. I sent birthday cards with long, thoughtful messages. Invited her to coffee and movie nights. Asked about her plans, her passions. All I got in return were shrugs and blank stares.
Kayla wasn’t outright rude. In some ways, she was worse — coldly indifferent, like I was just some background noise she’d learned to tune out.
So when she called Tom one rainy Tuesday, crying and asking to stay with us “just for a little while,” I softened. My heart cracked.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Tom said without missing a beat — or glancing at me for input. “You’ll always have a place here.”
I squeezed his hand and smiled. What choice did I have?
Three days later, Kayla arrived like a whirlwind in designer boots — hauling three suitcases, two totes, and a duffel big enough to fit a small country.
She barely acknowledged me as she swept through the door and claimed the guest room I’d spent hours preparing — calming blue tones, fresh flowers.
“This’ll do,” she muttered, dropping her bags with a force that rattled the picture frames.
“Welcome home, honey!” I said, standing in the doorway. “I made your favorite casserole.”
She glanced up from her phone. “Oh, I already ate. But… cool.”
Her plate stayed in the fridge for a week until I finally tossed it, my hands trembling with quiet frustration.
The warning signs showed up fast. A cereal bowl left on the coffee table, the milk turning sour. Used makeup wipes scattered around the bathroom like a party no one cleaned up after.
I found myself trailing behind her, collecting the little messes she left everywhere.
One morning, I held up an empty water bottle I’d pulled from between the couch cushions. “Hey, Kayla, do you mind putting these in the recycling?”
She barely looked up from her phone. “Yeah. Whatever.”
But nothing changed. Bottles kept piling up — under chairs, behind doors. They skittered across the floor like tumbleweeds in an abandoned town.
“She’s just adjusting. Give her a bit more time,” Tom would say whenever I brought it up.
Weeks passed. Then a month. The mess multiplied like bacteria in a lab. Empty Amazon boxes clogged the entryway. Dirty dishes spread like a slow-moving invasion across every surface…