My Stepsisters Used to Straight-up Steal from Me — Until I Made Sure Justice Was Served

Marianne's stepsisters have been stealing from her for months. From money to respect to her sense of security in her own home. Her mother won't listen. Her stepfather won't believe her. But Marianne refuses to stay powerless. With one ruthless plan, she turns the tables... and ensures that they never take from her again.

I see them once a year now.

Ashley and Kimberly, my stepsisters. We're all older now, and they've settled into their lives. But when I look at them across the dinner table, all I see are the girls who stole from me.

The ones who made my life hell.

The ones who taught me that, at twelve years old, I had to fight dirty if I ever wanted to win.

They don't speak to me much at Christmas. Not since what happened. But I see it in their eyes... the resentment.

I wonder if they still think about it, if they still curse my name for what I did.

Probably.

But they started it. And I finished it.

When I was ten, my parents split. My dad was in the military, always stationed abroad, and my mom, lonely and overwhelmed, remarried a year later. Jack was decent, but he came with baggage.

Two daughters. Ashley (four years older than me) and Kimberly (a year younger than me). Their mom had ditched them for a businessman somewhere in Asia, calling maybe once a month and visiting once a year, if that.

I understood their bitterness. I really did.

But they didn't take it out on Jack. They took it out on me.

They made it clear from day one: this was their house, and I was an intruder.

"There's no need for you to come over to our rooms, Marianne," Kimberly had said one day. "Like... our father is doing your mother a favor by having you both here. We heard that your house was tiny before you moved here."

"Kim's right," Ashley agreed, painting her nails. "You stay in your lane, and we'll stay in ours. Blood sticks together."

Mom didn't see it. The nastiness. Or maybe she just didn't want to see it. She wanted this new family to work so badly that she ignored the way Ashley rolled her eyes at me, the way Kimberly deliberately left me out of conversations... and the way my things would go missing if I left them unattended.

That was the worst part.

Not even the theft. It was the fact that my own mother refused to stand up for me.

"It's all in your head, Marianne," she would say. "I mean... you're very clumsy and scatterbrained. For all we know, you probably just moved things around."

Of course, I hadn't done that. I'd know if I moved my own things around. And I hadn't.

It was... them.

I tried not to make trouble unnecessarily. I stayed out of their way, kept my head down. And I worked to get away from the house.

Over summers and weekends, I mowed lawns, pulled weeds, edged sidewalks, and planted flowers. I also did all the chores at home, which earned me a small allowance. By the time I was twelve, I was making close to $200 a week.

That was when Ashley and Kimberly decided my money belonged to them.

It started small. Five dollars missing here and there. Then it became twenties.

I'd leave cash in my dresser, in my backpack, even hidden in my books... only to find it gone.

I confronted them. Of course, I did. I was Marianne, the independent child. But they'd just smirk and look down on me as usual.

"Maybe you spent it and forgot," Kimberly would say, all fake innocence. "Let's not pretend like you don't enjoy an ice cream or getting a fancy hand lotion."

Ashley would simply flip her hair over her shoulder and shrug.

"You shouldn't leave money lying around, Marianne."

Ashley always had new clothes, expensive makeup, and a mysteriously rotating collection of handbags. I didn't know where she got the money... but I had my suspicions.

I went to Jack and my mom. Told them what was happening. And guess what?

They did the same thing.

"You must be losing track of your money, Marianne," Jack said, barely looking up from his paper. "Maybe you need a piggy bank."

My mom pursed her lips, already tired of the conversation.

"Are you sure you didn't spend it, sweetheart?"

I couldn't believe it. Ashley and Kimberly were right there, barely holding in their laughter. I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake my mother and ask her why she wouldn't just believe me.

But I already knew why. My mother wanted peace more than she wanted justice.

So I stopped asking for help. What was the point of being shut down all the time?

I thought about calling my dad. He'd believe me. He'd raise hell. I was sure of it.

But I didn't want Dad to just fix it. I wanted Ashley and Kimberly to pay.

That was when I got my idea.

When my parents split, Dad had felt bad and bought me a small TV and an Xbox. It was his way of making sure I had something to distract myself when things got rough. Or... when I felt alone.

That console was my escape and my one comfort.

And it was about to become my weapon.

A week before my birthday, I rode my bicycle to a store a mile away. Lugging that TV in the bicycle's tiny basket was pure hell, but I managed it. Barely.

When I got to the store, I went around to the back where the row of dumpsters was.

And guess what I did?

I dumped the TV and the Xbox into the dumpster.

I cycled home with aching arms and a racing heart.

And then I waited.

Two days later, my birthday came. My dad, stationed in Germany at the time, called to wish me a happy birthday.

"Did you get the game I sent you, love?" he asked.

I hesitated just long enough for the tension to build.

"Yeah," I sighed. "Thanks, Dad. But I can't play it..."

"What? Why?" he exclaimed.

I swallowed hard, let my voice go small.

"I don't have my Xbox anymore..."

Silence.

"Explain," he said, his voice sharp and controlled.

So I did. I told him how my stepsisters had been stealing from me for months. About how my money would vanish, how I'd begged Jack and Mom to believe me, but they had always refused to bat an eyelid.

"So, the TV and Xbox were the latest additions, Dad. I have no idea what they've done with it."

Dad didn't speak for a long time. But when he did, his voice was ice.

"Put your mother on the phone, Marianne. Now."

I went into the kitchen, where Mom was chopping vegetables for dinner.

"Dad wants to talk to you," I said.

My mother grimaced and sighed before taking the phone.

"I'll be in my room," I said.

Minutes later, Mom appeared in my doorway, looking pale. She glanced around, as if hoping the TV and Xbox would magically reappear.

"I'm fixing it," she said. "I promise you."

Then, Jack stormed into Kimberly's room. It didn't take him long to find the $80 she couldn't explain. Panicked, she immediately sold Ashley out, hoping to save herself.

"I don't know about the TV and Xbox, Dad!" she shrieked. "Ashley must have pawned them! She always does things like that!"

I stood in the doorway while Jack went to search Ashley's room.

They found bottles of alcohol, cigarettes, and a pile of clothing with the tags still on. Ashley, who was smart enough to know I'd set this up, glared at me like she wanted to rip my throat out.

I played dumb. Naturally.

It didn't matter what I said or did. They were both in big trouble. And they were both grounded for a year.

Jack even forced Ashley to get a part-time job.

"I don't care what you do!" he shouted. "But you will find a job, and you will stick to it!"

"Maybe something at a salon," my mother added pathetically. "You'll enjoy that, honey."

I rolled my eyes.

The next day, Jack, clearly humiliated, handed my mom his credit card. She took me to the store and bought me a new TV, a brand-new Xbox, and a GameCube. She also hired someone to install a lock on my bedroom door.

As for Ashley and Kimberly?

They avoided me like the plague after that. And they never stole from me again.

Now, at twenty-five, I don't think much about them unless it's family dinners, like tonight.

The roast was slightly overcooked. Jack was carving it anyway, his knife scraping against the platter with each slow drag. A bowl of roasted potatoes was in the middle. And a platter of steaming rolls, glistening with butter, too. My mother was tossing a crisp salad.

It was as if time had stood still. Suddenly, I was twelve again. The air smelled like rosemary, wine, and forced civility.

"I've missed this," Mom said. "I've missed us being together."

Ashley speared a green bean, chewing carefully, like she was deciding whether or not she wanted to speak. She dabbed her mouth with a cloth napkin.

"I bought myself this gorgeous makeup kit last week. The expensive kind," she said.

Her voice was light and casual. She was waiting for a reaction.

"Oh, what brand?" Kimberly asked, picking up her glass of wine.

"Dior," Ashley replied, flicking her eyes toward me.

Her voice was casual, but there was something else beneath it. A test, maybe. A challenge.

Ah. So, we're doing this, I thought.

I took a slow sip of wine, letting the silence sit just long enough for her to feel it.

"Dior's nice," I said. "It must be great to have extra money lying around, huh?"

Ashley's jaw tightened.

"I work hard for my money, Marianne."

"So do a lot of people," I said. "They just don't take shortcuts, you know."

Mom cleared her throat. It was a warning. It was the same look she used to give me when I was twelve, when I was begging her to just listen.

I sighed, going back to my food. The potatoes were too creamy, the rolls were too soft. Everything was too much, like she was overcompensating.

"So, Marianne, how's work, sweetheart?" Jack asked.

A classic deflection. The meal went on, the conversation drifting to safer topics.

As for Ashley? She refused to speak to me again.

And I was fine with that.

What would you have done?

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This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.