A few years ago, my evil stepmother died. Almost every single day, it dawns on me that she is still dead, and I find that delightful.
Don't worry, it's not as bad as it sounds. Or maybe it is.
After she shuffled off her mortal coils, I wrote an essay about my confusing, guilt-inducing glee at her demise. Here is an excerpt:
"My stepmother never worked at a paying job a day in her life, and had the tawny, crinkled skin of a woman who gardens a lot. As mean and squinty as her eyes were when directed my way, they were green and pretty, homecoming-queen eyes. Although my stepmother was always gaining and losing the same 40 pounds, to me she was all beefy shoulders and sinister stockiness. I have no idea how tall she really was, because in my mind, she was as fearful and looming as a defensive tackle, leaning her elbow in my doorway, impassable.
My stepmonster may be incinerated, but she still gives me the stone-cold willies."
In honor of the upcoming Mother's Day holiday, I revisit the story in full.
Read it here.