A week before my final school dance, my prom, Jane stepped into the role of evil stepmother. My dad married Jane six years ago, long after he and my mother separated. When Jane moved in, so did her daughter, Amy. “You and Amy are the same age,” my dad said. “I think you two will get along really well.” I don’t think so,” I said. “She’s barely said a word to me.” “Elsa,” Dad said. “Give it time.” Jane enrolled Amy at my school because it was closer to home, and she thought it would give us something to bond over.
Initially, Jane tried to be a good stepmother and even tried to include me in her and Amy’s nail appointments. But the older we got, the closer they became — shutting me out completely. “Maybe Amy’s just going through something,” my father said when we went for ice cream, and I confessed. “Maybe she just needs extra time with her mom.” I learned to live with it, getting used to the fact that even though Jane called me her daughter, I wasn’t going to be.Then, we entered our final year at school, and prom quickly became the highlight of the social calendar.
