Then she said something that frightened me.
"And if you keep challenging me, I'll tell your father you need to be sent somewhere that teaches respect."
My brother's expression changed.
For a moment, he looked scared.
Then he glanced toward me.
I was crying quietly.
He lowered his eyes.
"Okay."
My stepmother smiled.
"Good."
Later, he came into my room.
He closed the door.
Then he sat beside me.
"If she ever says she's sending you away," he whispered, "you tell me."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
He swallowed.
"Because she keeps saying things like that when Dad isn't here."
I nodded.
Then I asked the question that haunted both of us.
"Do you think Daddy would let her?"
My brother was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he said, "Not if he knew the truth."
I believed him.
But I didn't know how we'd make Dad believe us.
The first real warning came from a school permission slip.
Our class was taking a trip to a children's science museum, and I had spent three weeks looking forward to it. My best friend and I planned to sit together on the bus, bring matching lunches, and visit the room filled with enormous mechanical displays.
The teacher gave us forms to take home.
Mine needed a parent's signature.
I placed it carefully inside my pink backpack.
That evening, I gave it to my stepmother.
She glanced at it.
Then she said, "I'll handle it."
The next morning, the form was missing.
I searched my backpack twice.
Then I checked the kitchen counter.
My stepmother told me she'd already sent it to school.
I believed her.
But when the trip day arrived, my teacher called me aside.
She said the school hadn't received permission for me to attend.
I watched my classmates climb onto the bus.
Then I sat in the school office waiting for someone to collect me.
I cried so much that the receptionist gave me tissues.
When my father heard about it that evening, he was upset.
He asked my stepmother what happened.
She sighed.
"I signed the form and gave it back to her. She must have lost it."
My father looked toward me.
"Sweetheart, did you lose your paper?"
I stared.
My stepmother stood behind him.
I remembered her warning about making him disappointed.
So I whispered, "Maybe."
My father knelt.
"It's okay. Everybody forgets things sometimes."
He hugged me.
Then he said we'd visit the museum together another weekend.
I smiled.