House Rules on My Door

When my dad remarried, I thought the biggest adjustment would be sharing space. I was wrong.

My stepsister was blonde, slim, effortlessly cute—and immediately in charge.

Not officially. Just naturally. She reorganized the kitchen without asking.

Changed the Wi-Fi name. Set quiet hours. One morning, I found a handwritten

list taped to my bedroom door: House Rules. They were oddly specific.

When to shower. Where to leave my keys. Which shelf was “mine.” She watched

me read it, arms crossed, head tilted, smiling like she already knew I’d

follow them. And the worst part? I did.