The Boy Whose Stepmom Hated Him So Much She Made Him Sleep In The Attic
A few years before Harry Potter’s Cupboard Under The Stairs
When I was in 10th grade, I was boy crazy. 💖
But, oh boy, did boys scare me. I mean, that swinging tube of blood between their legs was so novel. As a teenage girl, teenage boys made my hormones surge and my ability to think to disappear.
Barry had baby blue eyes and an angelic baritone voice and was also in 10th grade like me. He was friends with one of my BFFs. It didn’t take much to make me swoon: tall, handsome, and confident.
Tick. tick. tick.
Barry fit the checklist, so when he invited me to his house, my brain froze, and my head nodded YES.
After Barry invited me over to his dad and stepmom’s house, I was flustered, excited, and nervous. I was nervous because he was way wealthier than me.
I was still embarrassed by being poorer than my peers.
Then, he told me his parents hated him. His dad couldn’t stand him now because his new stepmom didn’t like him. They favored her kids instead.
I didn’t believe it.
Barry told me he didn’t have a proper bedroom. That his bedroom was in the attic. I shook my head in dismay and disbelief. I tried not to let this information faze me.
I was excited to go alone to a boy’s home.
My group of girlfriends was outgoing, while I was The Shy One. I was slowly beginning to talk with some mutual boy friends. Barry was the first boy I visited on my own.
Blushing, I smoothed my wavy brown chin length hair and checked my dark red lipstick before raising my hand to knock. Barry opened the door before my fist made contact and walked me to the kitchen, where lunch was being made.
Not for us. Lunch was being made for her kids. I shit you not.
“Hi,” I said to the stepmom. She glared through Barry and me.
Barry motioned me to follow him. Sure enough—around the corner from the kitchen, was an attic space.
We climbed a teeny tiny drop ladder to a teeny weenie space that fit one person, stooped over. Barry sat on the floor.
I stood half on the ladder, half with my head in the entryway to Barry’s “bedroom.”
Oh, the obstacles. The boy was down and out. And then, Barry looked at me with his baby blues and started singing. Swoon. A 15 year old baritone wasn’t exactly common.
I looked into his Frank Sinatra eyes, my heart aflutter. My mind was trying to work out how a family could be so cruel.
The attic “room” was temporary due to lack of space?
But then, I confirmed Barry’s wicked stepmom made food for everyone but us.
She’d lovingly stirred the pasta for herself and her kids. None for us. I was guilty by association.
How could she hate this handsome, polite, talented boy so much?
Did he remind her of his mom? Was she that petty? Barry was one of the most “perfect” kids I’d ever met. Never in trouble.
It was confusing and heartbreaking.
We graduated high school and went our separate ways.
Years later, when visiting my hometown, I stood in line at a Hastings music store. There was a man about my age being the sweetest dad to his daughter.
It was Barry.
We smiled kindly at one another.
I’m not sure if he recognized me, but I think he did. I like to think he did anyway. And, that we both went through some shit, and still came out okay.
I could tell that child meant the world to him.
Seeing Barry that day reminded me if we’re lucky, we go beyond our unfortunate circumstances and become our best selves anyway.
Aimée Brown Gramblin founder of Age of Empathy, is practically a superspy because that’s basically what writers are, right? She dabbles in nonfiction articles, emits poetry, and lives her life as a WIP memoirist. She sometimes dabbles in pop culture musings.
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