Stepmom Demanded I Pay $800 Rent. So I Evicted Her, Her Two Freeloader Kids…(2/3)

I kind of hoped she would, since guess who’d have to go get it fixed. GH. She puts it on speaker like she always does.

She enjoys an audience when she believes she is about to win an argument. The phone rings several times before Dad answers. He sounds fatigued, possibly because he was working while his stepson was developing his brand or something.

Tracy’s voice is pleasant and phony when she says “Mark,” as if she’s trying to gain an upgrade at a hotel. “Lucy is telling some interesting stories about the house. She says it belongs to her.

That’s not true, right?”

What about the stillness that followed? Deafening. You could literally hear my father clearing his throat when he was uncomfortable.

He does it frequently around Tracy. Then finally:

“Well, actually, my in-laws put the house in Lucy’s name before they passed away.”

Boom. Tracy’s face changed colors more than my previous mood ring.

First with Claire’s red, then white, and finally this strange greenish tint I’d never seen on a human before. “What do you mean they put it in her name?” she practically screams now. “When were you going to tell me this?”

“I didn’t think it was that important,” my father adds softly.

To be honest, this is a typical Dad move. Not important. Tracy is standing up now, her chair scraping against the floor.

“You didn’t think it was important to tell me that your teenage daughter owns our house?”

She hangs up on him mid-sentence. The phone hit the table so hard that I believed the screen would fracture again. I hoped it would.

Brandon is not laughing anymore. He becomes pale when he realizes that the game area he told me to leave was actually mine. Sierra is still recording, but her expression has changed to that of a deer in the headlights.

I can almost feel the Tik Tok drafts getting destroyed in her mind. Tracy is breathing as if she had just run a marathon in her false lubboutans. She’s trying to remain calm, but I can see her hands shaking.

“Well,” she continues, trying to sound cool, but failing miserably. “This has clearly been a misunderstanding. Of course, you don’t have to pay rent, Lucy.

Let’s just forget this conversation happened.”

But here’s something I didn’t want to forget. I was done forgetting all the nonsense they had put me through over the years. Done being the family doormat.

I’m tired of them living rentree in my house and treating me like a personal maid. So, I simply smiled and said, “Oh, we’re definitely not forgetting this conversation. In fact,” I paused for dramatic effect, “what can I say?

I’ve learned from the best. I think it’s time we had a serious discussion about your living situation.”

Tracy’s terrified expression. Better than any Christmas present I have ever received.

But wait, it gets even better. Because while they’re all sitting there processing their new reality, I can hear Tracy’s phone vibrating with texts from my father. She is ignoring it, but I know exactly what is going on.

He’s undoubtedly panicking and texting her about all the legal paperwork my grandparents left, which proves everything I’ve just said. Okay, so after the nuclear dinner scene, I went to bed feeling really good about myself. Have you ever felt empowered to confront a high school bully?

That’s how I felt after multiplying it by 1,000. What about Tracy? Oh, no.

She was not done. Definitely not. So, the next morning, as I’m about to go downstairs for breakfast, I hear Tracy’s voice coming from the kitchen.

She’s on the phone with my father on speaker because, of course. And guess what she is doing? Y’all, y’all.

This woman is literally attempting to persuade my father to let me move out of my own house. Here’s the conversation I overheard, which I captured on my phone. Because at this point, I trust these folks as far as I can throw them.

Tracy: “Mark, you have to do something about this problem. Your daughter is causing problems.”

Dad, sounding exhausted: “What do you want me to do, Tracy?”

Tracy: “How about the outofstate institutions she applied to? You could persuade her to attend one of them.

Tell her that it will benefit her independence.”

I swear to God what Schutzbah this woman has. She’s actually out here trying to ship me off to another state so she can continue to live in my house rentree. But wait, it gets better.

Dad said, “I don’t know, Tracy.”

Tracy, in that sugary honey voice she adopts when manipulating others: “Think about it, Mark. She’s young. She needs to experience life away from home.

And honestly,” pause, “I’m worried about her mental health. All this anger she’s carrying around, it’s not healthy.”

Excuse me. The only thing harming my mental health is living with the bad stepmother from every Disney film combined.

But here’s the part that really grabbed me. He said, “Maybe you’re right. I’ll talk to her about moving out for college.

It might be better for everyone.”

I literally had to bite my fist to stop shouting. My own father, whom I’ve lived with my entire life, who I cared for after Mom died, and who I cooked and cleaned for, has just agreed to try to push me out of my own home. So, I did what any reasonable person would do.

I proceeded into the kitchen as if I had not heard anything. Tracy almost dropped her phone when she saw me. She was still in her silk robe, probably phony like everything else about her, holding her world’s best mom coffee mug, which Brandon and Sierra bought for her at the dollar store for Mother’s Day.

And she behaves like it’s fine china. “Good morning, sweetie,” she says as if she isn’t trying to get rid of me. “I made coffee.”

First and foremost, she did not prepare coffee.

Instead, she loaded a K Cup into the curig I purchased with my Starbucks money. Second, honey. Since when?

Brandon stumbles in looking like a zombie, presumably up all night streaming to his three viewers, and Sierra follows shortly after, already fully camera ready. It takes her 2 hours every morning. I kid you not.

We’re all sitting there having breakfast, which I made. Tracy doesn’t know how to cook anything that doesn’t come from a microwave. And the tension is so strong you could cut it with a knife.

Brandon shovels cereal into his mouth while scrolling through Tik Tok. Sierra takes pictures of her untouched avocado toast for Instagram. And Tracy pretends to read emails on her phone, but I can tell she’s actually looking up how to evict someone who owns your house.

“Tracy, you’re not very subtle with the phone angle.”

That’s when I started to have fun. “Hey, Tracy,” I replied casually. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday about rent.”

She perks up like a mircat, undoubtedly expecting me to back down.

“I suppose you’re correct. People should pay rent to live here.”

The relief on her expression lasted only about 2 seconds before I dropped the bomb. “So, I have been conducting some calculations.

Based on the market pricing in our area, I believe $1,200 per person is reasonable. That is $3,600 for you, Brandon, and Sierra. Of course, that excludes utilities.

Oh, there will be a security deposit.”

Chaos. Total chaos. Brandon genuinely choked on his frosted flakes, while Sierra’s avocado toast went face down on her new white crop top.

Karma is real, people. And Tracy. Tracy appeared to be about to pass out.

“You can’t be serious,” she sputters. “We are family.”

“Oh, I am dead serious.”

“And since you raised a family,” I take out my phone, which has a tape of her morning conversation with Dad queued up, “let’s speak about your little plot to ship me off to college.”

Brandon and Sierra are looking between us like they’re watching a tennis match. And the color in her cheeks drained so quickly that I thought she’d pass out.

So, after I aired the recording of Tracy’s phone call, things got crazy. Like Jerry Springer crazy. Tracy rushes up from her chair so quickly that she knocks over her treasured world’s best mom cup, which fortunately did not break.

She’s doing this weird thing with her face, trying to seem angry, but her Botox is fighting back and it’s actually kind of funny. “You’ve recorded me?” she screeches. “That’s illegal.”

I simply smile and add, “Actually, we live in a one party consent state.

I checked.”

“Also, my house and my regulations.”

Brandon is just sitting there with his mouth open, milk trickling down his chin. I suppose this guy never learned how to eat correctly. Sierra is hurriedly texting someone, most likely her Tik Tok group chat, where she pretends to be wealthy and unconcerned.

Tracy begins pacing around the kitchen. Her knockoff Gucci slides making that annoying flip-flop sound on the tile floor that I cleaned yesterday. And she’s muttering something about calling her lawyer cousin.

You know, the one who specializes in real estate law but only handles DUI cases in some strip mall office. Then she takes a different approach. Her voice becomes quiet and concerned, as if she’s attempting to secure a refund without a receipt.

“Lucy, I understand you’re upset, but what about this behavior? Yeah, it’s unhealthy. Your father and I are only trying to help you.

Perhaps some time away would be beneficial for you. There’s this beautiful college in Michigan—”

I cut her off right then. “Tracy, let me make something very clear.

I’m not going anywhere. This is my house. The deed is in my name, and if anyone’s going to be leaving, it won’t be me.”

That was when she lost it completely.

“You ungrateful little—”

I won’t mention what she called me, but it wasn’t very world’s best mom for her. She begins to rant about how she raised me as if I were her own, by making me their maid. How she gave up everything to be a good stepmother by shopping at TJ Maxx rather than Nordstrom.

And how I’m ripping this family apart. What family? Meanwhile, Brandon and Sierra are experiencing their own meltdowns.

Brandon: “Please. This is Bulls. I’m not paying rent.

I’m about to blow up on Twitch.”

Narrator: He wasn’t going to blow up on Twitch. Sierra is screaming, “Daddy won’t let you do this. He loves us more than this stupid house.”

Spoiler alert, he does not.

I just sit there sipping my coffee, which I made because Tracy still doesn’t know how to use the French press, and watching them plummet. It’s as if every ounce of entitlement and privilege they’ve been hoarding is simply bursting forth. Tracy then takes out her trump card.

She grabs her phone and calls my father again, undoubtedly expecting him to rush home and solve everything like he always does. But plot twist, I’ve been messaging Dad all morning. Send him the recording.

I explained everything. For the first time in his life, Dad is truly supporting me. Kind of in his own ineffective way.

When he responds, he returns to speaker mode. Tracy is screaming, “Mark, you need to come home right now. Your daughter is out of control.”

Dad, surprisingly firm: “Tracy, we need to respect that it’s her house.

Maybe we should start looking for a new place.”

Brandon’s brain cells could be heard struggling to digest this betrayal. All three of them. Tracy’s face undergoes a fantastic journey of shock, rage, disbelief, and finally fear.

Real terror. Because it has now dawned on her that she is about to lose everything. The comfortable life.

The free ride. She has been on a power trip for many years. This is when she makes her worst mistake.

She turns towards me, gets right in my face, and says, “Listen here, you little bae. I don’t care whose name is on the deed. This is my house.

I’ve lived here for 12 years, and no spoiled brat is going to kick me out. I will make your life hell.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

Because guess what? I’ve also been taping this entire chat. Not only that, but I had already spoken with a lawyer.