They never expected me to move back home, and I think he believes this is just an adjustment period issue. My dad won’t do anything to change her attitude even in her mid-forties, she still has the body of a college coed-most of it plastic-and is his glorified trophy wife.

“That girl of yours is such a waste of space, honey. Be a productive part of the household.” The intercom clicks off, but not before I hear Jean’s usual complaint. Get your lazy ass out of bed and come down here. With a tiny U-Haul of canvases, sculptures, and the assorted tools I couldn’t bear to sell to pay another month’s rent, I moved back home. Doing well for myself is not good enough in today’s world, however. A patron of the arts near my college had an old storefront he was looking to rent, and in exchange for some art and a date that didn’t go well for either of us, I had a gallery. For being just out of art school, I had done well for myself. It is not like I had become some big-name artist, but I was holding my own. Even with a loan from my father that floated my studio’s expenses for a few more after that, it was just too hard. I sold my car for two months of utilities and rent. When the economy went to shit, I could no longer afford my dream.

Her behavior towards me since is another story, one more typical of stepmothers in fairy tales. Jean, the current step-mom, was careful to be extra nice around him until they were married.

She never made it down the aisle with him he wouldn’t marry someone who was so blatantly vicious about me. Something or other about even though I was an adult who owned her own gallery, I was still his little girl and needed to have a place in his home.

My prior almost step-mom tried to talk my dad into shipping everything to me and turning this into a yoga studio for herself, but he had refused. It looks the same now as it did during high school. The walls of my childhood bedroom are still silver and black striped with my mixed media artwork displayed as a personal gallery. Once I have a job and can save enough to get my own place, I will be out of here before the ink dries on a lease agreement. I can barely tolerate being back home with her here. If I close my eyes and pretend as hard as I can, the list in front of me has gallery dates and art supplies listed instead of line after line of jobs my step-mom thinks I can handle. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Her Dad's Friend by Penny Wylder