The Wicked Stepbrother, Or Happily Ever AfterI hate my stepsister.
I hated my stepmother.
I hated my father.
Sometimes I hate myself.
I’m not a nice person.
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In the spring of the year I turned eighteen, and Conor, sixteen, Father brought home his third wife. They drove up the long driveway, the great front lawn an explosion of flowers, the canopy of those huge oaks dappling the silver-gray hardwood of the car in green light, and parked in front of the stone steps. When Father opened the door and got out, he wouldn’t even look in my direction as I waited at the door with Conor. Conor, yes; me, no.
He had gone to the capital, New Roesk, six months ago to look for a new rich wife. He had squandered the money Grandfather left him and what money he had from marrying Mother, althou
