My stepfather demanded I pay for his daughter’s new house — but what he didn’t know was that my mother had been hiding a 19-year secret that would change everything.

“Liam thought it would be nice for him to have some special time with his daughters.”

“What about us?” Nick asked. “Well, maybe next time,” Mom replied weakly. But next time never came—for us, anyway.

That became the pattern. Liam always paid for Mom to join their family trips, while Nick and I stayed home with whatever relative was available to watch us. But the vacations weren’t even the worst part.

It was living every day in a house that constantly reminded us that we were second-class. Cleo and Emma had their own bedrooms, complete with matching furniture and carefully decorated spaces. Nick and I shared a cramped room with bunk beds—even though the guest room stayed empty “for when Liam’s parents visit.”

“This isn’t fair,” Nick would whisper from the top bunk at night.

“I know,” I’d whisper back, staring at the ceiling. “But what can we do?”

We learned to live with less. We learned that love came with conditions.

And we learned that “family” didn’t always include the people who lived under the same roof. Years passed, and somehow we all grew up despite everything. Nick left for college at 18.

I remember him packing his beat-up duffel bag. “I’m getting out of here, Stace,” he said. “And when you’re old enough, you should too.”

“But what about Mom?” I asked.

He paused, folding his last shirt. “Mom made her choice. Now we have to make ours.”

When I turned 18, I took his advice.

I got into a decent college three states away and never looked back. Those four years were the best of my life: no favoritism, no watching Cleo and Emma get everything while I got nothing. College led to a good job, then an even better one.

By 28, I was doing well. I had my own apartment, a career I loved, and—most importantly—my independence. Nick was also doing great.