The first time I met Dad’s new family, I was nineteen and I desperately wanted to hate them. Unfortunately, I couldn’t.
Tricia, Dad’s wife, was an absolute doll. She’d treated me like a member of the family with hugs and smiles that were genuine and welcoming.
I never received any evil-step-mother vibes from her.
The evil step-sister myth was further abolished when I met Faith and Hope. The girls, only a couple years younger than me, were every bit as sweet as their names. I could find no fault with them despite the lack of common ground between us.
We came from different backgrounds, different parts of the Americas and had different stories.
While they’d grown up knowing Dad as ‘dad’, it took me years to call Mark my father. We couldn’t really relate to each other and, consequently,
