With dinner conversation.

You both have some take-away and after a bit she asks “Why didn’t you tell me this stuff was happening?”

You are stunned and put you food back down, just looking at her for a bit. “I did! Many times, but you never listened to me, or accused me of lying. I eventually gave up trying because I knew you didn’t care for me. You cared for your step kids, but never your actual son.”

“How can you say that?”

You look at her like she is crazy. “What was the last time you ever treated me as someone you cared about when it did not benefit you? Hell, Pete cared for me like his own son, and he only married you because he was **** to since you convinced his family he was my father. Pete always claimed he never fucked you, and I heard you arguing where you stopped him being able to give me a DNA test.

“But you kept going out to parties and enjoying life while he was **** to work hard.”

You shake your head slowly. “The saddest thing is that you never took the time to think how you hurt those around you. You got so stuck into the role of being a good step-mother you never thought about your role as a mother.”

She was shocked. “I can’t have been that bad?”

You just calmly look her in the eyes. “No, you were worse. You pampered them, but neglected me. Almost all I owned in my room, like my clothes, my computer, and my books were either things I brought with money from weekend and afterschool jobs, or I found being tossed out. The other things were mementoes from Pete, the only real father figure I’ve known, but you and the others trashed my room, destroying them while planning to kick me out. You spoiled your step-kids, and planned to kick your own son out on his 18th birthday with only the clothes he stood up in and no warning, in a place where he knew nobody.”

“But . . .”

“And by the way, what money would I use? You and Mark took control of my bank account when I was ten, drained it dry to pay for treats to the 3 step-sibs and closed it. I was not able to open another without permission, and paperwork.

“I don’t have any official paperwork related to me either, so I still can’t open an account. I can’t get a driver’s license, proof of age or anything else. Without a bank account, how can I get paid if I get a job?”

You sip your drink a bit before continuing.

“Why, mom, why did you treat me so? You can’t claim not to know how to care for kids, because you sure cared for Mark’s kids, but not me. What did I do, or not do, to make you act like this?”

Finishing your food, you notice she had barely touched hers, and there are tears leaking from her eyes. You also notice other people had been listening in.