That Bitch Let Him Move In!
My Stepdad Survival Story
A bold smirk spread across my reddened face when he slapped me.
Face-to-face, we were common enemies at the very start. He was bigger, stronger, and in a place of more power — or so he thought.
In my mind, I was smarter, more strategic, and in an even greater place of power.
So there we stood, head-to-head, face-to-face, toe-to-toe. This was one of those moments that could be trajectory-shifting.
He didn’t know me well. Not yet. When he slapped me, I’m sure he expected tears and perhaps even rage to match the uncontrollable emotions bubbling up out of himself. But no. I wasn’t going to let him have that. This asshole was not allowed to have my tears. This asshole wasn’t going to have any part of me.
This asshole didn’t belong.
When he saw my creeping sly smile, his rage burst forth. He grabbed me by the arms screaming at me, right in my face. All I could do was focus on the spit bubbles forming around the sides of his mouth, landing in the bald patches of his scant mustache—the angrier and louder he became, the more my nervous laughter refused to remain hidden.
And when he was finished, I squinted at the lowlife beneath me and quietly threatened, “I’m going to tell my Dad.”
His name was Ron. He was 23 years old. I was nine.
He was my mother’s “special friend,” who had started spending some nights on the tiny sofa in our apartment. I was already familiar with him — he worked at my little brother’s daycare center and took classes with my mom at the local community college.
I was also familiar with Ron courtesy of my father. After a few beers or ten, Dad would have me stand at the stairs by the door with him waiting for my mom to come home late after nursing school. I could not move from my spot. We had to stand still in our places until she returned home. He would tell me that she was out on a date with Ron and that we were not moving from the door until she returned from her date with Ron. Ron, Ron, Ron. He hated Ron.
Coupled with the fact that I was a complete daddy’s girl at the time, young Ron did not stand a chance with me. I had already created a Ronny Donny voodoo doll in my mind, so I believed it when my dad would tell me that the reason he and my mother divorced was because of Ron.
Now — I’ll repeat this. I was nine. I did not yet understand the nuances of relationships or all the layers to unpack of a father having his child wait up late standing at the door for their mother while telling them much too loudly all about a suspected affair. And that’s just one little piece.
Ron was not violent.
Ron was not uncaring.
Ron was young. He was — he was a boy.
My mother found someone who provided what she needed, and she loved him very much — as he did her. Their relationship moved very quickly, which was part of the confusion. It didn’t take long for a couple of nights on the small sofa to turn into my mother letting Ron move in.
Which felt like a slap in the face that I couldn’t smirk at. It felt like a slap in the face that made me want to bury myself in a hole and die in from.
He wasn’t my dad.
He wasn’t my dad.
Every sound he made I hated. Everything he did made me angry. The way he chewed. The way he picked at his mustache. The way he’d pat my mother on the butt. And I made it known that he annoyed me. I did not keep my distaste for Ron at the beginning a tragic secret. I was vocal. Way too vocal. I was vicious, mean, and manipulative. I was a boyfriend-to-a-single-mother’s worst nightmare.
“Ron was not violent.” Let’s address that. I was nine and he slapped me. Ron was kind. And he was loving. As I said, he was young. Ron entered a relationship with a much older woman who had a three-year-old son with emotional issues and a ‘tween girl who was sassy, bratty, and a little bit cunning when she wanted to be. We were not easy.
In truth, even though I was far from nice to him, Ron had a more difficult time adjusting to parenting my younger brother. I wanted nothing to do with him, so I just kept to myself. Plus, I had good grades, was involved in many other activities, and was fiercely independent — so, I was fine keeping to myself. My periodic fits of discontent were more in the form of having a brattattack over the sound of his aforementioned chewing and the mustache-picking thing. (My mother and I would both yell at poor Ron, “Stop eating your mustache!”)
My brother, on the other hand, was a bit of a troublemaker when he was little — and boy did he and Ron ever clash. Bad. Ron didn’t know how to handle it.
Mom worked nights so Ron was often with us in the evenings after school, and there were times when the fights were pretty bad. Not violent — but the shouting was bad enough. Ron had a scary temper — I named them spaz attacks, which naturally he hated. If it got to the point where a spaz attack made me nervous or I felt like I needed to step in — I would. I’m protective, so if I felt like it was getting out of control, I’d walk right in the middle of it and stare Ron down.
In time, Ron learned how to be a good parent — especially when he and my mom had their own baby.
I just needed to train the beast.
I have to give him credit. He stuck with it, even putting up with my bullshit.
He never stopped trying. I remember walking as a family through a crisp winter snowstorm to go to the movies, stopping along the way to make angels in the snow and have a snowball fight.
The first gift he gave me was REO Speedwagon’s Hi Infidelity record album. A pretty good gift. Throughout the years, he and I would often talk about music. When I was 10, he introduced me to the community theatre — and I starred in my first little one-act as a little girl who woke up to find her teddy bear and doll come to life. The theatre gave me purpose and happiness where I was otherwise very depressed and lonely, even though I was surrounded by friends and family who loved me. I credit Ron for being the one to not only bring me into the theatre world but encourage me to keep pursuing it. When it came to my creative pursuits — whether it was acting, writing, journalism, or what-have-you, he was always my biggest cheerleader.
He would take out his bass guitar and show me notes on the strings and teach me how to read music. When I was a teenager, even when I was a young adult, he’d sometimes slip me money — even though he was frugal — and would be the voice of reason when sometimes my mom could be too emotional. He trusted me infinitely and loved and treated me like nothing less than his own flesh and blood. Even when I could be cold and distant. He never blamed me for the times I was nasty to him as a child or lashed out or made him my emotional scapegoat for something he really didn’t cause.
Isn’t perception an interesting thing?
Ron and my mom have been married since 1982. That’s pretty remarkable.
There may have been a brief moment in time when I mouthed off about my mother letting her young boyfriend move in…but I’m grateful. That young “special friend” of hers who I stared down and gave such a hard time learned how to raise us and loved us as if we were his own — no matter how many times we told him we hated him.
That young special friend of hers turned out to be a pretty amazing stepfather. And a pretty amazing grandfather as well.
I was wrong.
Turned out…that asshole belonged.
Wow, Kiki. I really love this story. It hold so much space for imperfection, which is, after all, all there is and for forgiveness and self-reflection. Beautiful!
This did not go where I expected based on the beginning! Thank you - great story.