Ever get the sense someone sees you as just an extra in your own story? That was me—Diana—for three draining months. My grown stepdaughter, Kayla, moved in and transformed my quiet home into turmoil, acting like I was her private housekeeper. But I showed her: even tolerance has a limit.
Tom and I had created a warm, joyful life together over the past decade in our snug Redwood Lane home. Sundays were sacred—pancakes, crossword puzzles, and the kind of laughter you only gain through time and affection. My son, Rick, was flourishing at college. And Kayla—Tom’s daughter from his previous marriage—remained on the fringes of our lives. I reached out over the years: birthday greetings, dinner invitations, gentle chats. She replied with courteous apathy. Not hostility—just lack of interest, as if I were a decorative plant in the corner. Present, but insignificant.
Then one rainy Tuesday, she phoned Tom in tears. She needed a place to stay “just temporarily.” Without even looking in my direction, Tom agreed. Three days later, she showed up with enough luggage for a European tour, barely acknowledged me, and occupied the guest room I had thoughtfully arranged.
