My name is Isabel, I’m 23, and last month my dad, Jonathan, got remarried—or at least, he tried to. His fiancée, Patricia, had been around for a few years, but we never clicked. When my dad was around, Patricia acted warm and friendly in that hostess kind of way. She’d compliment my shoes, laugh politely at my jokes, or make small talk about work. But when it was just the two of us, her mask slipped. Her smile turned tight, her tone sharp, and she dropped subtle little digs. Questions

I thought it was just another stuffed toy when my daughter brought home a teddy bear she instantly fell in love with. But one late night, I realized she wasn’t only talking to it—someone else was talking back through the toy. And what I uncovered next shook me more than I could ever imagine. Four years ago, I discovered what the hardest job in the world really is. Not being a doctor, not being a firefighter, not even being a president. The hardest job is being a mother. And not

I never imagined my day would start like this. I’m Sandra, 57, a widow, living in a quiet neighborhood where the most excitement usually comes from a barking dog or the mailman dropping the wrong package. My son, Derek, 28, and his wife, Lindsay, moved in with me last year. It was supposed to be temporary—just until they found a place of their own. But here we are, still under the same roof, and tension simmering like a pot about to boil over. Derek is a good man—always has been.