Six months on a business trip, and the algorithm serves me an essay.
The title: "The Tragedy of Blended Families: Stepmothers Will Never Truly Love You."
Reading the "abuse" described inside, my stomach dropped.
The moment I got home, I called my stepdaughter Blanche Pruitt to the living room to ask if she had any complaints about me.
Blanche popped imported cherries I'd bought into her mouth, rolling her eyes between bites.
"Twenty thousand a month? That's pocket change for a beggar."
"If you actually want to play the good stepmom, you should ship your daughter back to the family home and spoil me exclusively."
"Oh, and sign over your company's inheritance rights. That's the only way I'll feel secure."
I laughed in disbelief.
When we first got married, my husband Vincent Pruitt had only then confessed he had a daughter being raised back home.
I'd felt sorry for a child growing up without parents around. I didn't make a fuss—brought her to live with us, treated her like my own flesh and blood.
The clothes on her back, the things in her hands—add it all up, easily six figures.
Every purchase charged to my authorized user credit card.
Yet somehow, in her eyes, that counted as abuse.
I canceled the card on the spot and told her I'd only be covering what the law required from now on.
She wanted luxury goods? Her biological father could buy them.
Next thing I knew, my social media feed exploded with her posts.
"HELP! My evil stepmom finally dropped the act—she's kicking her underage stepdaughter out!"
...
That post had been live less than ten minutes before my phone started blowing up.
Relatives. Friends. Business partners. Even teachers from Blanche's school.
Everyone asking the same question:
"Ms. Fox, you always seemed so kind. How could you abuse a child?"
"Is there some misunderstanding? Little Blanche was crying her eyes out."
I hung up and looked at Blanche, lounging on the couch with her phone.
Legs crossed, she was replying to comments calling me every name in the book, letting out little snickers as she typed.
"Evil stepmom." "Old witch." "Drop dead."
The words stabbed at my eyes like needles.
I took a deep breath, forcing down the anger rising in my chest.
"Blanche. Delete it."
She didn't even glance up.
"Why should I? Everything I said is true."
"You cut off my card—isn't that basically trying to kill me?"
"All my classmates have the new designer bags. I'm the only one without. What's even the point of living?"
She tossed her phone onto the couch and met my eyes with a smirk.
"Unless you restore my card right now and transfer me fifty thousand for emotional damages."
"Otherwise, I'll show up at your company with a banner and let everyone know exactly what kind of person you are!"
Her shamelessness was almost impressive.
This was the "daughter" I'd raised for ten years.
When Vincent first brought her to me, she'd been wearing ill-fitting hand-me-downs, hiding shyly behind him.
I'd felt for her. Loved her like she was my own.
Took her to the best shopping centers. Enrolled her in the most elite private school.
I'd even neglected my own biological daughter, Irene, just to make Blanche feel included.
And this was the result?
I'd raised a viper waiting to sink its fangs into me.
The front door swung open.
Vincent rushed in, drenched in sweat.
The second he saw the two of us squared off, he froze.
"What's going on here? We're family—can't we talk this out?"
He wiped his forehead, shooting me a look.
"Honey, Blanche is still a kid. Teenage rebellion, you know? Don't stoop to her level."
The moment Blanche saw her dad walk in, her whole demeanor shifted.
