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

Chapter 11: The Painted Smile

That evening, I set up a video call with dad. Linda sat beside me, her face carefully neutral.

“Look at these progress reports.” I showed him the charts I’d created, identical in format to the ones Linda used to keep of my weight.

“She’s already showing improvement.” “That’s wonderful. Linda, you’re so lucky to have her taking care of you.”

Linda’s smile looked painted on. “So lucky.”

After the call, I caught her trying to sneak into the kitchen. The confrontation that followed felt like destiny fulfilling itself.

“This is about compliance, Linda. You have to trust the process.” I guided her back to her room.

“Tomorrow we’re implementing new security measures for your own good.” The next morning, I installed locks on the pantry, the same kind she’d used when I was 12.

As I turned the key, I saw recognition dawn in her eyes. “You can’t do this,” she whispered.

“I’m your caregiver. I can do whatever is medically necessary.” I pocketed the key. “And this is necessary.”

Chapter 12: Support and Isolation

At her book club meeting, I arrived with a small container. “Linda’s special meal,” I announced to the group.

“She’s on a strict diabetic diet now. Please don’t offer her any snacks. We need everyone’s support.” The women nodded sympathetically.

They promised to help by not tempting her with their usual spread of cookies and sandwiches. Linda’s sister Catherine called, offering to help with care.

“That’s so kind,” I said. “Here’s what Linda needs: strict meal times, no deviation from the plan, and absolutely no extra food.”

“Even a small cheat could spike her blood sugar dangerously.” I gave Catherine detailed instructions that would effectively isolate Linda further.

No surprise visits during meal prep, no bringing groceries, and no taking her out without checking with me first. Ellaner began noticing her mother’s fatigue.

“She seems so tired lately.” “It’s normal during dietary transition,” I explained.

“Her body is adjusting to proper nutrition for the first time in years.” I started scheduling Linda’s meals during dad’s daily calls, ensuring her blood sugar was at its lowest when they spoke.

She couldn’t complain coherently when her mind was foggy from hunger. At her next doctor’s appointment, Linda tried to speak directly to Dr. Patterson.

“I think the diet is too—” “She’s been showing signs of confusion from blood sugar fluctuations,” I interrupted.

Chapter 13: Breaking Through the Plateau

“Yesterday she insisted she hadn’t eaten lunch when I’d fed her 2 hours earlier.” The doctor made a note about possible cognitive effects from unstable glucose levels.

That night, I reduced her portions again. “You’ve hit a plateau. We need to break through it.”

Linda stared at her plate: 3 ounces of fish, half a cup of green beans, no starch. “This isn’t enough food,” she said quietly.

“That’s what all food addicts say.” I sat across from her with my own full plate. “Trust the process.”

As I watched her count every green bean, spacing them out to make the meal last longer, I felt 13 years of hunger transform into something else. It was something that tasted like justice but burned like acid in my throat.

The pantry key weighed heavy in my pocket. Tomorrow I’d implement the next phase, but tonight I watched my stepmother go to bed hungry for the 25th night in a row.

Just like she taught me. I noticed Linda’s hair starting to thin during her morning weigh-in.

Strands clung to my fingers as I checked her scalp, documenting the changes with clinical precision. She winced when I pulled too hard, but I maintained my professional demeanor.

“Hair loss can indicate nutritional deficiencies,” I noted aloud, photographing the evidence, “though in your case it’s likely from your pre-existing condition.”

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Linda had used the same trick years ago, washing my hair with dish soap to make it brittle and fall out.

Chapter 14: Weapons of the Master

She’d told dad it was stress from school. I adjusted her meal plan that afternoon, reducing portions further.

When she protested, I pulled out my tablet and showed her the photos. “See this thinning pattern? Classic sign of non-compliance. You must be sneaking food somewhere.”

Her protest fell on deaf ears. I’d learned from the master herself how to twist evidence into weapons.

Elellanar’s daughter visited that weekend. Sweet little Emma, only 8 years old, watched her grandmother pick at her lunch with concerned eyes.

“Grandma, why aren’t you eating more?” Emma asked. Before Linda could answer, I interjected smoothly.

“Grandma has to eat special portions to stay healthy. We’re helping her get better.” Emma nodded solemnly.

“My friend’s mom says portion control is important. Are you helping grandma with portion control?” The words hit Linda like a physical blow.

I watched her shoulders slump as Emma parroted my exact phrasing throughout the visit. That evening, I discovered Linda’s old diet journals hidden in the attic.

Years of meticulous records detailing every morsel I’d eaten, every pound I’d lost, and every infraction carefully documented. I spread them across my bed, highlighting specific entries with fluorescent markers.

The patterns were all there: the gradual reduction techniques, the psychological manipulation, and the medical terminology she’d used to justify the abuse. I photographed each page, building my playbook for the weeks ahead.

Chapter 15: The Dawn of Realization

Linda found me studying them the next morning. Her face went pale as she recognized her own handwriting.

“Those are private,” she said weakly. “Were private,” I corrected, not looking up.

“Now they’re educational materials. You were quite thorough in your methods.” I watched realization dawn in her eyes.

Every technique she’d perfected on me was now being refined and returned with interest. The recording device I’d hidden in the kitchen captured our next confrontation perfectly.

Linda, desperate and hungry, begged for more food. My response echoed her words from decades past.

“Hunger is just your body healing itself,” I said calmly. “You should be grateful I care enough to help you.”

I played the recording during her next meal, watching her flinch at her own phrases thrown back at her. The psychological warfare was escalating exactly as planned.

Dad called during dinner, right on schedule. Linda’s blood sugar was at its lowest, making coherent conversation difficult.

She stumbled over her words, seeming confused and disoriented. “She’s having one of her episodes,” I explained to Dad, my voice full of concern.

“The doctor warned this might happen with her blood sugar fluctuations.” After the call, I found Linda rummaging through my room.

Chapter 16: Documenting the Intervention

She discovered my revenge journal, but I’d anticipated this. Every entry was written in medical terminology, documenting her treatment in language that sounded legitimate to untrained eyes.

“Fascinating case study,” I said from the doorway. “A diabetic patient with severe food addiction and compliance issues. The psychological components are particularly interesting.”

She threw the journal at me, tears streaming down her face. “You’re documenting torture!” “I’m documenting medical intervention,” I corrected, picking up the journal.

“Every entry follows standard clinical notation. Would you like me to explain the terminology?” Eleanor arrived unexpectedly the next day, concerned about her mother’s weight loss.

I was ready with my evidence. “Look at these emails,” I said, pulling up Linda’s old messages on my laptop.

Years ago, she wrote about my greed and manipulation around food—classic projection from someone with their own food issues. Eleanor read through them, her expression shifting from concern to disappointment.

The emails painted a picture of a woman obsessed with controlling food. She used terms like “portion control” and “tough love” repeatedly.

“I had no idea she was so fixated on food back then,” Ellanar murmured. “The patterns were always there,” I said gently.

“We just didn’t recognize them.” What Elellanar didn’t know was that I’d found something else in those old files.