Reclaiming My Name: Outsmarting My Stepmom’s Petty Game

My Stepmom Intentionally Called Me the Wrong Name Until I Taught Her a Lesson

I detest my dad’s new wife, who he remarried to last year. I understand that she doesn’t consider me to be her daughter because I truly am not. That being said, I fail to see why she regards me as a rival. To make matters worse, despite my corrections, she continues to refer to me by the incorrect name. I chose to humiliate her by teaching her a lesson when the chance arose.

My patience has definitely been tested over the past year. She’s been calling me names and making mean remarks ever since my dad remarried Carla, and it really annoys me.

I detest it when she refers to me by my second name, Eunice, even though my name is Jessica. The key reason for the strange dynamic is that Carla has a daughter named Jessica.

But in contrast to what you may anticipate, we get along really well. Carla is often perplexed by the fact that we’ve grown to be like true sisters, sharing everything from secrets to outfits.

Carla is overt in her display of preference. Almost as if she’s attempting to create her ideal little family tableau with me as the outsider, she’s always planning tiny get-togethers for my dad and stepsister. But it’s her insistence on referring to me by my second name that truly irritates me.

“Eunice just sounds more distinguished, don’t you think?” During breakfast, Carla once said, buttering her toast, as if she hadn’t just brushed off my emotions. I gently corrected her, “It’s Jessica,” so as not to start my day off wrong. Dad adores this name, and I also adore it. Please be mindful of that.

She gave me a condescending smirk and carried on as if I hadn’t said anything. Jessica, my stepsister, gave me a solidarity kick beneath the table while rolling her eyes at her mother’s intransigence. Thankfully, she does not resemble her mother.

An exciting run-in occurred at the store last Saturday. Carla quickly rushed to introduce us after spotting her employer a few aisles away while we were shopping. I saw it as a chance to impart some life lessons to Carla, while she saw it as a chance to express her love for her family.

“This is Eunice, my stepdaughter,” she said, pointing grandly in my direction.

I carried on with my grocery shopping as though I hadn’t heard anything at all. “Eunice!” she called again, attempting to get my attention with a stronger voice.
I pretended to be captivated by a display of exotic fruit, inspecting a specific piece as if it contained the key to global peace, because ignoring her felt like all the power I had just then.

With an expression that combined humiliation and annoyance, Carla charged over. Her voice was low but angry as she yelled, “You’re embarrassing me in front of my boss!” “Why didn’t you answer me?”

I carried on with my day as if nothing had happened. She exclaimed, “Eunice!” three times before addressing the group with, “Jessica!” I gave her a smug smile at that point. “Yes, Carla?” I answered coolly.

“As I’ve said to you many times, my name is Jessica. I refuse to respond to your persistent calling of me Eunice; I’m not sure why. It’s impolite,” I continued.
She stammered back, but I ignored her and moved on, her gaze searing my back.

It was cold in the aftermath. Upon learning of the incident, my father attempted to mediate. He approached me and chuckled over it. In an attempt to close the distance, he said, “Maybe she can call you Jessi, and her daughter Jess?”

Although I respected Dad’s effort, I shook my head. Dad, it’s all about respect. It’s important to accept who I am, not simply my name.”

The real test came a few days later during Carla’s birthday party. Her friends and coworkers crowded the house, and I prepared myself for yet another round of “Eunice” introductions. But after our confrontation at the grocery store, Carla had changed in some way.

With a joyful tone, she introduced herself and made a motion towards her daughter. She said, “This is my daughter Jessica,” before turning to face me. There was a pause, just long enough to feel like there was tension in the air. “And this is my stepdaughter,” she said, trailing off as her eyes darted to mine, fighting a wordless war.

She finally let out a breath and went on, “Jessica.”
It was a momentous occasion. Jessica, my stepsister, grinned broadly as she gripped my hand under the table. We exchanged a triumphant and relieved gaze. Carla tried calling me Jessica for the remainder of the evening, and even though it was obviously difficult, it meant a lot to me.

She apologised to him, “Colin,” as she was gathering her belongings. “But I’m not cut out for this life. I’m not capable of doing this. I’m not sure whether I want to continue trying because I have no idea how to be a mother.”
But my father said, “Kayla needs you.”

With tears flowing down her cheeks, she whispered, “If I stay, I’ll do more damage.”

She then left our lives behind.
My mother had chosen to leave me behind, but my grandparents did a wonderful job of making me feel loved and cared for during the years that my father relied on them to raise me.

One day, as we sat at the table, my grandma observed, “It’s difficult, I know.” But Kayla, you have to keep in mind that not everyone is cut out to be a parent. Occasionally, people discover something too late.”
My grandmother’s reasoning made sense to me, and I understood it. I had no influence over this. Accepting that my mother had chosen to abandon me and that her love for me was insufficient, however, was not an easy task..

However, as I matured, my father’s importance to me increased—he was the one person who would go to any lengths to support me.
We were up against the world.

However, my father and Tanya met at my school when I was twelve. She met her twins at a school fundraiser; they were a grade above me.

Taking one of the cupcake containers from the car, my father scoffed at me, “Kayla, we’re really spending our Saturday at your school?”
I assured him, “It’s only for a few hours.” “After that, we can depart. Uncle Jim and you both want to watch the game on TV, I know that.”

With the baked pastries in hand, my father laughed and we strolled over to the football pitch. As we prepared everything, we awaited the start of Bake Day so that we could sell our cupcakes and leave.
Then Tanya arrived with her twin children, Avery and Allie, and placed their brownie containers next to mine.

“Oh, no!” My father raced to Tanya’s aid as she cried out and nearly dropped a container after tripping over a tablecloth.

He picked up the container, repositioned it, and assisted in releasing the tablecloth fragment that had become lodged in Tanya’s shoe.
That marked the start of the end.

By the end of the event, my father and Tanya had swapped phone numbers and agreed to get together for dinner the following week.

They got married two years later, and Allie, Avery, and I were bridesmaids.
I also experienced motherhood for the first time.

Things were good at first since Tanya took care of the things I needed to do.

“Just be careful,” my granny warned me. Her only reason for being kind is that your father wed her. Hold off till everything settles. However, I hope she’s everything you need her to be for you, my sweetheart.”

Gran’s comments seemed to have summoned Tanya’s darker side. She was caring at first, but then she lost interest in me. I started to see that she was treating me differently than she was the twins.

“Don’t worry about it,” my father said me as we went for a run. He had just had very high cholesterol and needed to start living a healthy lifestyle per doctor’s orders.
“It’s not the fact that the twins are getting new things,” I replied. “It’s the fact that she doesn’t even try to make me feel like I deserve them, either.”

“It’s been Tanya and the girls for a long time, love,” my father remarked, pausing to take a breath. “They only know each other.”
My father assured me on our walk home that he would always be there for me, no matter how I was feeling.

Until he wasn’t; a few weeks after I turned fifteen, my father died in his own bed from a heart attack.

Though it has been fictionalised for artistic purposes, this work draws inspiration from actual individuals and events. For reasons of privacy protection and story improvement, names, characters, and details have been changed. Any likeness to real people, alive or dead, or real events is entirely accidental and not the author’s intention.

The publisher and author disclaim all liability for any misinterpretation and make no claims on the veracity of the events or character portrayals. The thoughts represented in this story are those of the characters and do not necessarily represent the viewpoints of the author or publisher. The story is offered “as is.”