I love my stepmother. She’s the sweetest lady on earth. So when I say this, I mean it with kindness: the woman will never give you a lift anywhere. Secretly, I think she’s wise. If she starts with one of us, seven more will expect the same. She’s Protestant. They’re way more practical. They don’t have the guilt. She genuinely doesn’t care. No amount of big-eyeing or eyelash-batting or crying or foot-stomping or whining will result in you getting dropped off or picked up. Ever. You can sink or sodding swim. So when I saw her car coming toward me down Beechwood Avenue with my stepsister crying in the passenger seat, I knew my mother was dead.
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