Part 1: The Silent Walls
Growing up with a stepmother, Madison, wasn’t something I ever imagined. But when I was twelve, my dad, Mark, remarried, and Madison became an inescapable part of my life. It was never easy. Mom had passed away two years earlier, and I still clung to the memory of her, the scent of her favorite perfume lingering on my clothes, a constant reminder of what I’d lost.
Madison made it clear that she had an image in her head about how our new life would unfold. Pilates classes, organic meals, yoga retreats—things that were foreign to me. But she was also a woman who excelled at passive cruelty. It was never overt—just little jabs disguised as compliments. “I love how practical your style is, Talia,” she would say, her eyes lingering on my mismatched jeans and hoodie like they were something to be ashamed of.
