My Step-mother Starved The Child Out Of Me, So I’m Starving The Life Out Of Her.
Chapter 6: The Power of Attorney
I’d already noticed the new lock installed there during my last visit. Dad kissed Linda’s cheek, then mine.
“Two weeks in Singapore. Big merger. You sure you can handle this?” “Dad, I’m literally trained for this. Go close your deal.”
After his car disappeared down the street, I turned to Linda. The fake warmth evaporated from her face like morning dew.
“Let’s get started with your assessment.” I wheeled my bags inside, noting how she stepped back to let me pass.
“I need to review all your current medications and food supplies.” Linda followed me to the kitchen.
“I’ve been managing fine on my own.” “That’s not what your A1C levels suggest.”
I opened her medication cabinet, photographing each bottle. “These dosages are all over the place. When did Dr. Morrison last adjust your insulin?”
“Last month.” I made a note on my tablet.
“These dangerous inconsistencies could kill you.” I turned to face her. “Good thing dad gave me medical power of attorney before he left.”
Chapter 7: The Tables Turn
The coffee cup slipped from her hand, shattering on the tile floor. Brown liquid spread across the white squares.
“Medical power of attorney?” Her voice came out strangled.
“Didn’t he tell you? He signed it last week. Said he couldn’t focus on work worrying about your health.” I stepped over the broken ceramic.
“I’ll clean that up after I inventory your food.” My phone buzzed; Elellanar’s name flashed on the screen.
“Hey, is mom okay? She seemed really off at lunch yesterday. Kept talking about portion sizes.” I typed back quickly, “Just arrived. Scheduling her comprehensive health assessment this afternoon. I’ll keep you updated.”
Linda bent to pick up the ceramic shards. “I don’t need any assessment. I feel fine.”
“That’s what all non-compliant patients say.” I used the same tone she’d used when I was nine.
“This afternoon we’re doing new A1C testing, a full metabolic panel, and discussing your diet. Doctor’s orders.” “I have book club this afternoon.”
“I’ll reschedule it.” I opened the refrigerator, cataloging its contents.
“Your health comes first. Besides, we need to talk about portion control.” She flinched at the phrase. Good.
Chapter 8: The Clinical Intervention
The clinic’s waiting room smelled like disinfectant and fear. Linda sat rigid beside me while I filled out her intake forms.
“Concerning weight gain over the past 6 months,” I told Dr. Patterson when he called us back, “her current diet clearly isn’t working.”
Linda opened her mouth to protest, but I continued. “I’ve prepared a 1,200 calorie meal plan based on the latest diabetic research. Here are my calculations.”
Dr. Patterson reviewed my documents while Linda sat silent in the corner chair, her hands twisted in her lap. “This seems quite restrictive,” he said.
“Her A1C is 8.2. We need aggressive intervention.” I pulled up more charts on my tablet.
“As her caregiver and a certified nutritionist, I’ll personally ensure compliance.” He glanced at Linda’s chart, then at her.
The numbers I’d highlighted told a story of poor control and weight gain. Never mind that her actual weight was ideal for her height and age.
“Well, with your credentials and family involvement,” he signed the diet order, “let’s try this for 3 months.”
Chapter 9: The Purge of the Kitchen
Back home, I immediately began removing items from the kitchen. Crackers, cookies, and even her whole grain bread went into boxes.
“Those are my foods!” Linda protested weakly.
“They were your foods. This is all poison for diabetics.” I sealed another box.
“From now on, you eat what I prepare for your health.” That evening, I found her trying to call dad.
I gently took the phone. “He’s in meetings until midnight Singapore time. You know how these mergers are.”
I set the phone on the counter, just out of her reach. “Besides, I’m sending him daily updates. He’s thrilled we’re finally addressing your condition properly.”
While she slept, I searched her bedroom. Under the mattress, behind the dresser, and inside shoe boxes.
Finally, in the back of her closet, I found it: a plastic bag filled with candy bars and chips. It was the same spot where I used to hide the crackers I’d steal from Elellaner’s lunchbox.
I photographed everything, making sure the timestamp was visible. The next morning, I presented the evidence.
“Hiding food is a sign of food addiction.” I used her exact words from when she’d found my hidden crackers at age 10. “This is why you need supervision.”
Chapter 10: The Measured Portions
Eleanor arrived that evening for dinner. I served grilled chicken with vegetables for everyone, but Linda’s plate was different.
It was measured portions on a smaller plate: no sauce, no salt. “Mom, you’re not eating much,” Eleanor observed.
Linda pushed the dried chicken around her plate. “I’m not very hungry.”
“She ate a large lunch,” I lied smoothly. “And look what I found yesterday.”
I showed Ellanar the photos of the hidden snacks. Elellanar’s expression shifted to concern mixed with disappointment.
It was the same look dad used to give me when Linda reported my food obsession. “Mom, you have to take this seriously. You could lose your feet or worse.”
After Ellanar left, I installed a child lock on Linda’s phone, blocking all food delivery apps. “Medical necessity,” I explained, “to prevent cheating.”
Margaret called the next day, worried that Linda had missed their weekly lunch. “She’s on a strict new treatment plan,” I explained. “Doctor’s orders. No restaurant food for now.”
“But we’ve been having lunch every Tuesday for 15 years!” “Her health has to come first. I’m sure you understand.”
