Claimed in the Backseat by Stepfather

Lily

“Dad, look! It’s here!” I squealed, tugging on my stepfather’s sleeve and pointing at the tow truck cresting the hill.

“Finally. Two hours in this godforsaken place.” My mother sighed, slapping another mosquito on her arm. She shot a glare at Mark. “I told you this camping trip was a terrible idea.”

I rolled my eyes. This was her tenth complaint since our car sputtered and died on this lonely backroad. Mark loved the outdoors and had finally talked her into a weekend getaway. Now, she was blaming him for not servicing the car, while he just quietly called for help like he always did.

“Mom, stop it. It’s not his fault,” I said, pushing my square-framed glasses up my nose.

She crossed her arms. “You always take his side.” I quickly ducked behind Mark, my fingers curling into the soft fabric of his grey Henley.

“Easy, Lily. Your mom’s not a monster,” Mark said, turning to ruffle my hair with a soft laugh.

He was always calm, even when she was like this.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sometimes jealous she had him. At thirty-six, as a high school history teacher, he still had that kind, steady handsomeness. Being near him felt safe. He’d been my dad since I was seven, when he married Mom.

He was perfect.

When I was eight, he confronted the kids who teased me for being fatherless.

When I was fifteen and heartbroken after my first crush rejected me, he held me and said, “Smart girls like you don’t waste tears on boys who don’t see your worth.”

He never missed a single school play or parent-teacher conference.

He’d sit with me for hours, explaining confusing history essays without a hint of impatience.

And Mom… she was always working. Being a real estate agent consumed her. She’d come home stressed, then the complaints would start: the clients were impossible, the house was a mess, Mark’s cooking was bland.

It was the same every day.

“Hello there,” Mom’s voice cut in as the tow truck driver, a stocky man with a friendly face, climbed out.

Mark took my hand and we walked over. The driver tipped his cap. “Name’s Joe. From Roadside Rescue.”

Mark shook his hand, explaining our situation and our destination.

Within minutes, Joe had our SUV secured on the flatbed. He gave the straps a final tug and nodded. “All set. I can drop you at the garage near your neighborhood.”

“Great, let’s go,” Mom said, already heading for the truck cab.

But Joe looked apologetic. “Sorry, folks. Cab only fits three comfortably. Got my tool chest taking up the back seat.”

I peered inside. The back seat was indeed dominated by a large, heavy-looking metal chest, leaving only a sliver of space.

“Lily can sit on Mark’s lap. It’s only a two-hour drive,” Mom said dismissively.

“Mom!”

“What?”

“Why can’t you hold me, and Dad sits in front?” I argued, frowning.

Mom gave me a sharp look, but Mark intervened. “She’s got a point. I’m all legs anyway.” At six-foot-three, he really was.

Mom shook her head firmly. “No. I get nauseous in the back. I need the front seat, window open.”

Mark’s lips pressed into a thin line. He gave me a resigned look. “Guess we’re squeezing in, kiddo.”