My Side Of The Story: Stepmother

The Dunyos were an African family that lived in a small, cozy apartment complex. I remember beige bricks and white walls. The living room was set to the left, the kitchen was behind it, and then there was a hallway that lead to the master bedroom. There was a bathroom on the right and my room was on the left, behind the kitchen.

Pastor Emmanuel was getting ready to start his own church and Miss Cleo was a nurse. Though I did cry out of stress the first night I slept there, they gave me the first bit of stability I'd had in a very long time. There was no gossiping here. No backstabbing. No idiots co-signing and starting trouble with each other for no reason, no kids forming cliques. No racial slurs or ignorant comments. Here I didn't have to strain my ears, just knowing that their laughter was directed at me. I didn't have to be paranoid and watch my back all the time. I didn't have to be on alert, just waiting for someone to try and start something.

That's how my mental state was at the time.

When I first got there, I felt sick all the time-physically. My appetite was bad and I wouldn't eat unless I was told to and even then, I'd only take small bites and then push the food away. They thought I was starving myself but the truth was, I just couldn't get myself in the mood to eat (whatever that is), even when my stomach was growling and I could feel my hunger. An outsider might have assumed I had some sort of eating disorder, but that wasn't it at all. I loved eating-just not then.

And once again, I was enrolled in a new school. I attended for two days and then went back to my habit of skipping. But this time they found me in the bathroom and called the Dunyos. Thankfully they weren't judgmental about it. It was almost summer anyway, so they withdrew me and decided to keep me in home schooling during break.

Time went by and I got used to daily life with them. We went to a lot of weddings, and sometimes I sang at church. So much tension was lifted from my shoulders just from being able to do that. There was a little boy named Isaac (a troublemaker to say the least) that I was really attached to.

And I slowly felt better.

One day, I ripped out all of my old sketchbooks and started filling them with portraits and watercolors. It was immensely stress-relieving. When Nancy came to visit me, even she could notice it.

"It's like you're a completely different person." I remember her noting that one day in the living room. "This is the first time since I'd met you that you'd looked like you'd gotten enough sleep."

I nodded. "I do feel better."

It isn't very clear how we got to talking about my parents, but one thing lead to another and somewhere along the way Nancy asked me how I'd feel if my "mother" was not my real mother.

"I wouldn't care." I shrugged, not having a clue what she was about to tell me. I didn't even consider the possibility. "As a matter of fact, I'd like it better that way. I don't want any blood ties to her."

"Come here." I still recall her taking my hands in hers and looking me square in the eyes. "She isn't your real mother."

"What?"

"I said she's not your real mother."

"You're kidding right?"

Nancy shook her head. "I'm not kidding. We were talking to her and she confessed it. She is actually your stepmother."

My mouth wide open, I stood there gaping and not saying anything like an idiot. It took a minute for it to fully sink in. "Then who's my real mother...?"

"Your real mother died of cancer when you were one." Nancy continued. "You were a baby at the time that your mother died, and that's why you don't remember her. They were going to wait until you were eighteen to tell you, but...now I guess it's too late for that."

That conversation is still fresh in my mind. I can still see her eyes boring into mine, her lips set in that crooked line, her jaws clenched tight. What happened afterwards is a blur. I recall Nancy calling someone on the phone, telling them about what happened. I remember me curling up on the couch, saying something about being glad that she wasn't my mother. I remember Miss Cleo coming into the living room after hearing the word "shock", handing me a tissue. Was I crying? Yes, I was crying.

That night I resumed writing obsessively like I'd been doing in RICA. I had to do it. That was what made it all okay-someday, later on, I'd be heard. I'd have a voice.

Sarah drove me to her office to have a supervised call with my stepmother (who I now knew to be my stepmother) soon afterwards, and I told her about what I'd found out. I don't remember all of it. I only remember her crying, wanting to speak in Korean, and saying that my dad was only thirty at the time. Only thirty? I found the "only" part ridiculous. I remember telling her that things had changed and if they laid their hands on me now, I'd fight back. I remember her scoffing, lamenting about how she could spend years so-called "caring" for a child and not be considered the mother.

"I got some interesting news today. You're not my real mother are you?"

"No, no...I'm not."

"Then my mother, what happened to her?"

"Cancer, cancer, stomach cancer."

"You are a terrible person and a failure as a mother. Do you still not believe me when I say that I was being sexually abused?"

"I don't know. If I believe you then I betray my daughter, and if I don't then I betray my husband."

She started crying to me in Korean about how she would always be mother or something. I told her to get lost.

And then she told me one important piece of information: my real mother's name was Enbi, Kim and is buried in a cemetary in Korea. (I am still confused as to whether I should put the family name first like in Korea, but I'm keeping in mind that the readers are probably English-speakers.)

That was the last time I ever spoke to that woman.