Caught in the Middle

Chapter 1: A Family Stitched Together by Scandal

My stepmother had been part of my life for as long as I could remember not in a way that felt safe or nurturing, but in the way a shadow is always there, even when you try not to notice it. She wasn’t a stranger, she was the woman who had lived next door for years, the mother of a boy my sister’s age, someone whose backyard fence was the thin line between our lives.

Then my father “jumped the fence.” Literally and figuratively, leaving my mother for her.

Six months after their separation, my father moved in with her and in a way, so did we. Overnight, the boy I had grown up with was now my stepbrother. The boundaries between neighbour and family blurred into something awkward and suffocating. From the outside, we were a “happy family,” a picture-perfect show staged for the street that had witnessed it all. They smiled in public, their hands intertwined, as though love excused the wreckage left behind. But behind that façade was the quiet humiliation only a child can carry.

We still lived in the same street where it all began, where the whispers lived in the hedges and the side glances from neighbours followed me like a second skin. The shame sat heavy, but it wasn’t ours to unload. Our feelings didn’t matter; their happiness did.

We were expected to accept it. To smile for the sake of their story, then to erase our own pain so theirs could look prettier and somewhere in that shift, I learned that in this new family dynamic, my place was to stay quiet and carry the weight without complaint.

Chapter 2: The Shift

It didn’t take long before the cracks began to show. The jealousy arrived quietly at first a side glance here, a cutting remark there but it didn’t stay subtle for long. Whenever my dad gave me or my sister any attention, my stepmother was quick to snap it back. Her words or looks would cut deep enough to make us shrink in place. It wasn’t love. It was a constant measuring game, and she always needed the scales tipped in her favour.

By the time my sister was around eleven or twelve, the tension boiled over. She had stopped wanting to visit, unwilling to endure the constant hostility. One afternoon, in a field beside our house, a patch of land cleared for future townhouses, where all us street kids used to play, it all erupted. My stepmother stood there, screaming abuse at my sister, and my sister standing on a mound of dirt, screamed right back. I was told to block my ears, but no child can truly shut out something like that. I saw the flailing arms, the pointed fingers, the venom in their eyes and all of it, all that rage, was because my sister refused to come over anymore, which meant they’d have to pay more child support.

From that day on, the resentment shifted fully onto me. I became the stand-in target for all the hatred she had for my sister and my mother. I was no longer just a child in the house; I was the lightning rod for every storm she needed to unleash.

Chapter 3: Hunger as Control

When my sister stopped coming, the target shifted fully onto me. I became the daily outlet for every ounce of resentment my stepmother carried toward my mum and my sister. The rules grew harsher, the punishments sharper, and her patience was non-existent.

Food became one of her favourite weapons. I wasn’t allowed to touch anything from the fridge: no snacks, no fruit, nothing outside of my set breakfast, school lunch, and dinner. If I dared to take something, the punishment was swift and humiliating. She would drag me to my room, slam the door, and keep me there until dinner, only to send me straight back afterwards. I learned the creak of that door, the sound of finality in its slam. I learned how silence could feel like a cage.

Eventually, I started sneaking food, not out of rebellion but because I was hungry. I would tiptoe into the kitchen, praying the floor wouldn’t creak, hoping I could just grab a sweet treat or a quick snack before anyone noticed. But when I was caught, the shame came fast and loud. She berated me in front of my father and stepbrother, painting me as greedy, ungrateful, and sneaky. My stepbrother, the boy who had known me since I was a baby, just closed his door. My father poured himself a drink and walked away. That moment burned into me, a lesson that even my most basic needs would be treated as a crime, and my hunger, both for food and for care, would always be seen as an inconvenience.

Sometimes she’d ask for my help with something, and for a brief second, I’d feel hope maybe this was a chance to be seen, maybe even liked. I’d help with dishes, laundry, cleaning, anything she asked. But it was rarely genuine. More often, it was a test. The second I slipped up; her eyes lit with that “aha” moment she seemed to crave. Her voice would rise, twisting the story into something worse, and she’d rush to tell my dad before I could even open my mouth. And my dad never asked for my side. He came at me with his own anger, his voice loud, his words cutting, as if I were guilty simply because she said so.

Chapter 4 – The Child With No Voice

I was a child living in a house where love was conditional and safety didn’t exist. I wasn’t just silenced, I was erased. Every attempt to earn kindness backfired. Every moment of hope dissolved into another punishment or another reminder that I didn’t belong.

It wore me down physically. My body felt heavy all the time, my chest tight from holding my breath, my shoulders permanently hunched like I was bracing for impact. Nights were restless, filled with listening for footsteps in the hallway, wondering if I had done something, anything that would set her off again.

The only escape was leaving. I’d run back to my other parent’s house, not because it was safe there, but because it was a different kind of abuse. Deciding which form of abuse and neglect I could survive for longer stretches before breaking. It became a grim rotation: endure one kind of cruelty until I couldn’t anymore, then switch to the other. The cycle never changed. But my ability to survive it did.

Chapter 5: Running Back and Forth

When it became too much, I would run back to my mother’s house. It wasn’t safe there either, but I told myself I could handle that kind of pain better, as if I had built an immunity to it. At least there, I knew the patterns, the tones of voice, the moments to disappear before the storm hit. With my stepmother, the attacks were unpredictable, calculated in ways that caught me off guard.
The cycle never changed, only the faces delivering the blows. I was a child in survival mode, choosing between two different storms, neither of them offering shelter. The hardest part wasn’t the pain itself, but the knowing: no matter which door I walked through, there would be no place to truly rest.

Reflection

Control disguised as care is still abuse. I learned the hard way that silence is not peace, it is suppression. My childhood taught me what I will never allow in my own home: no child should ever have to beg for food, for affection, or for the right to feel safe. I survived those walls, and now I live to ensure that my children grow up in freedom, knowing their voices are welcome and their needs are never a burden.

Prayer

Heavenly Father, thank You for carrying me through the years when my voice was silenced and my worth was questioned. Thank You for giving me resilience when my spirit was under attack. I ask that You continue to protect my heart from the wounds of the past and guide me in creating a home where love is given freely. May my children never question their value, and may I walk in Your truth that sets us free.