My Step-mother Starved The Child Out Of Me, So I’m Starving The Life Out Of Her.

Chapter 1: The Grains of Rice

My stepmother used to count the rice grains in our pantry so I couldn’t steal any and eat behind her back. When I begged her to let me have food, she twisted my arm and whispered, “You’re lucky your daddy still keeps you.”

I didn’t say a word; I just knew what I was about to do. This morning she was staring at her dinner plate like it might bite her.

My stepmother Linda only wanted to starve one child, not her precious Elellanar with her dance recital and private school uniforms. Just me, the reminder of dad’s first marriage, who took up too much space and cost too much money.

It started when I was nine. When I asked why she kept forgetting to pack my school lunches, she called me a greedy pig.

Nine-year-old me was kind, but I wasn’t a pushover, so I ran straight to my dad’s home office. “She’s being mean,” I sobbed, “she won’t let me eat.”

“What do you mean she won’t let you eat? Could you come here for a second honey?” Linda barged in and interrupted, her voice as sweet as syrup. She dragged me to my room and closed the door.

Chapter 2: The Puppet and the Hidden Hunger

“Remember how sad your daddy was when your mommy went to heaven?” she asked, looking at her pretty nails. “If you tell on me again, I can make him worse, much worse.”

Before I could say anything, there was a knock at the door. It was my dad. “Is everything okay in there?”

I looked at her; she looked at me. “Yeah!” I exclaimed in the happiest tone I could muster.

From there, I practically became Linda’s little puppet. My dad trusted her to raise me and started working 70 hours a week at the firm.

All of Dad’s lunch money went to Ellaner’s extras while I sat in the cafeteria pretending I’d already eaten. I made up stories about big breakfasts that never existed.

But the worst part was dinner. The smell of roasted chicken would make me dizzy.

My mouth would water so much I’d have to keep swallowing, trying not to stare as Ellanar asked for seconds. “Look at this blubber,” she’d whisper, twisting my skin until bruises bloomed purple and green, “disgusting.”

Chapter 3: The Weight of Scars

I never even bothered trying to steal food from the fridge because every night she’d count and record everything that was there, right down to the grain of rice. She said it was for her diabetes management, but I knew better.

By seventh grade, my body had given up trying to grow. There were no curves, no period, nothing; just sharp bones and baggy clothes.

Dad came home early one night and saw me in a tank top. “Wow,” he said, his face beaming with pride, “whatever diet you’ve got her on is really working. She looks so healthy.”

I watched Linda’s smile spread, slow and satisfied. “It’s all about portion control,” she said.

My face flushed with embarrassment. Immediately, I was hit with an overwhelming urge to cut off every part of myself that had any amount of fat.

From there, I started eating even less than Linda gave me. My days became filled with dizzy spells and fainting in the bathrooms.

Chapter 4: The Education of a Mastermind

Fast forward to when I was 22 and in my third year of college. I was sitting in my nutrition class, severely underweight and barely able to stay awake.

My professor got onto the topic of eating disorders, specifically how it starts. “Food restriction in children is one of the most insidious forms of abuse,” she said.

“The perpetrator maintains complete control while leaving no visible marks.” As I sat in the lecture hall, a different kind of emptiness filled my stomach—the kind that comes with understanding.

Thirteen years of starving, and what had I discovered? Only that some people grow stronger by making you smaller.

That’s when I realized I’d been playing victim for 13 years. It was time to play doctor.

After college, I became a certified nutritionist specializing in diabetes. I got my certifications and built my reputation.

My dad thought I was an academic genius, but really I was an evil mastermind. As Linda got older, her diabetes got worse, and dad was traveling more for work.

Chapter 5: Returning Home

She needed someone trustworthy to be her sole caregiver, ideally someone in the family. Lucky for her, she had a daughter who knew meal plans inside and out.

I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home, medical bags and carefully prepared meal plans stacked in the back seat. Linda opened the front door before I could knock.

Her smile stretched wide but never reaching her eyes. “Oh sweetheart, you’re here.” She wrapped me in a hug that felt like being squeezed by a python.

I noticed how her fingers pressed into my back, probably checking if I’d gained weight. Dad emerged from the garage, dragging his suitcase toward his car.

His face lit up when he saw me. “Perfect timing. I was worried about leaving Linda alone with her condition getting worse.”

I shifted my medical bag to my other hand and gave him my most reassuring smile. “I’ll take excellent care of her.”

Linda’s hand trembled slightly on her coffee cup. Her eyes flicked toward the kitchen, specifically to the pantry door.