Disclaimer: The Animorphs and all related things belong to K.A. Applegate and Scholastic, not me. I just want to hang out in their world.
Wicked stepmothers get so much crap. Well, let me tell you; try raising a kid that hates you, then you can talk to me about wicked. I don't even have the full baggage of stepmother, I'm just wicked aunt, but the situation is still the same. No matter what, you will never be the kid's mother. They know it, you know it, and no matter how good you are, you will always be the symbol of everything that went wrong in their life. Do they care that your marriage went to hell? Do they care that your money is being spent on toys and shoes that they're gonna grow out of in a month? Do they care that you had dreams once, dreams that had to be put on hold or scrapped all together because they needed someone to tuck them in at night? No, a child will never care about any of that, because you are the wicked one. You are the one who is not cuddly, who doesn't read the stories with funny voices like Mommy did, who doesn't cut sandwiches right. And of course, all this time, Mommy is getting better and better in their mind, because she's not there to screw it up. The kid probably doesn't even remember her by now, but the shining angel of maternal perfection is hanging in his head, always whispering "I would have loved you more. I would have loved you better".
I never knew it was possible to hate someone as much as I hate Loren now. My hate stretches across the country, seeping into a hospital and washing over her blind, crazy self, lying in a bed, no good to the world anymore. I can tell the boy anything about her: she abandoned you; she's crazy; she never wanted you in the first place. She will always be his angel. I told him once that she had left to start a new family and that she had better children now, ones that she would never leave. He said he would just have to be better, so that one day she would come get him and let him be part of that family. I've told him so many different stories, I can barely keep track. I think the truth even slipped in there once. I've never told him she was dead, though. The last thing I need is him thinking she's an honest to god angel. It's a miracle he doesn't pray to her as it is.
Mother's Day is a horrible holiday. It praises women just because they managed to shove pounds of flesh out of themselves. Everyone is supposed to get sentimental, no matter what their situation is, just because someone stuck a note on the calendar. The boy loves every bit of it. Oh, he cries over it and acts mopey and depressed, watching the other kids with their mothers. But in that way where it's clear the person is getting something from their pain; they like being the victim and feeling put upon because it makes them feel justified in being weak. The boy had that act down practically by the time he was walking.
I came home one day, one Mother's Day, and found his backpack open by the table. Two cards were sticking out of it, and I couldn't help feeling like they were planted just right to be noticed. They were big extravagant pieces, pink paper and glued on lace, the crème de le crème of second grade arts and crafts. I pulled out the first one, still sticky from the glue holding the glitter on. "Happy Mother's Day" was carefully traced out on the front, surrounded by swirls of red and purple crayon. The inside even had a border around the text, in the same swirly pattern. The words were simple enough, the usual fare for him.
"Dear Mommy,
Happy Mother's Day. I miss you very much. I hope that you are very happy and that you will come and get me soon. Here is a picture of us walking together. I hope you like it.
I love you,
Tobias"
The other page had a little stick figure drawing, a really tall woman with yellow hair holding hands with a tiny stick figure boy. The boy's little dot eyes look up at her, the smiling figure towering above him. I swear the pictures of her got bigger every year. I knew this card was going to sit in the mailbox for a while; he didn't understand things like addresses and postage. The mailman eventually takes pity and removes them every year.
The second card was a bit less extravagant, but still the product of hard work, covered in little hearts. One page was covered with what could best be called red lumps, circular blotches up next to each other.
"Dear Professor Powers,
Happy Mother's Day. You said your kids do not make you cards because they are too old, so I made you one. This is a picture of a raspberry. I hope you like it.
Love,
Tobias"
Huh. Apparently that old bitch had entered the pantheon too, seated next to Loren in his kid brain. But hey, what did I care what he did with his time? Hanging out with crones to avoid schoolyard bullies; yeah, I sure got saddled with a winner. I crammed the pink explosions back into his bag, but something else caught my eye. A third card slipped in between the little starter books. This one was made with red paper and not half as elaborate. "Happy Mother's Day" was hastily scribbled across the front of it. No picture inside, no decoration, nothing aside from a message in purple crayon.
"Dear Aunt Sharon,
My teacher said I had to make you a card.
From,
Tobias"
Like I said, wicked step-whatever's get a bad rap, with what we have to deal with. Second grade and he's already got passive aggression down pat.