My birthday dinner was meant to be simple, almost ordinary. A home-cooked meal, a few close friends and family, a quiet atmosphere at my mother’s house. Nothing spectacular, nothing too emotionally charged. I had invited my father because he had always done his best to be there for me. But there was one person I had deliberately left out: my stepmother.
For eight years, I had kept her at arm’s length. Not because she had been hurtful or intrusive. Quite the opposite. She was discreet, polite, almost overly respectful. And this neutrality served as my alibi. She wasn’t “really” family. It was easier to believe that way.
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