A Wicked Stepmother With Empty Nest Syndrome Is Left Wondering, Now What?
My stepdaughter has left for college and now I fear that I no longer have purpose.
My stepdaughter has been in my life since she was nine years old. Like any good, wicked stepmother, I pride myself on creating a home that is unsafe and full of drama. For years, I would berate her and make her cry, ridicule her appearance, snicker at her hobbies, and steal money from her piggy bank to pay for my manicures.
Recently, she moved out of the house to attend a good college somewhere in rural New England. While I always expected her to leave, I reckoned it would have been in handcuffs or as a runaway teen. Instead, that little troll took all my antics and tricks, and horror of all horrors — used them to persevere. My darling husband, her father (though I do question the legitimacy) beams with pride over her partial holography scholarship but it’s not my insatiable jealousy for his attention that is the issue. My problem is that since she’s flown the coop, I find myself feeling nostalgic for her tear-stained face and cowering posture. I’ve always taken my role as an evil stepmother quite seriously so you can imagine my anguish in admitting that I’m suffering with empty nest syndrome since his offspring left town. I’m afraid that with my step-spawn out of the house, I no longer have purpose.
After all these years of asking my gilded, magic mirror, “Will she ever leave,” I never once thought about the repercussions of ruling a silent roost. I’ve tried finding new hobbies, like baking, but what’s the point if there’s no one around to eat the poisoned apple pie? I joined a stepmother support group at the community center, but not one single woman was wicked. With their bouncy blowouts and bottles of alkaline spring water, they spent the whole hour discussing Gwyneth Paltrow’s approach to step-parenting and how her wildly successful husband calls her a “spectacular stepmom” to his two teens. They shared sappy stories about creating blended families built on love and stability. When it was my turn to speak, I opined, “it’s disheartening to hear that goop, a pseudo-wellness company has replaced Disney, the ultimate be-all end-all of stepmothering standards” to which another member, Natalie, cried, “I wish you well.”
Feeling devalued, I rang up my neighbor and offered to walk her French bulldog. I figured getting out of the house would be good, but she declined by saying, “Why, so you can turn Luna into a flying monkey?” I volunteered at the local library, helping little ones learn the joys of reading but that went down in flames, literally, when I started burning Dr. Seuss books. Those insufferable kids asked for the Grinch, and I over delivered. Distraught and with nothing to do, I find myself wilting on the couch, chalice in hand, watching Mommy Dearest for the umpteenth time. I know parenting doesn’t come with an instruction manual but as far as I’m concerned Joan Crawford wrote the playbook on being the baddest mother figure in town.
It seems like just yesterday I was going through old family albums cutting up photos of my dead predecessor but now with all this time for self-reflection, I wonder if I could have been crueler and more ambitious. I look at Camilla Parker-Bowles and marvel at how she maneuvered her way from royal mistress to Queen all the while leaking tawdry stories about her stepsons to the British tabloids. Though I did sell my stepdaughter’s diary to her ex-best friend, I never got a bejeweled crown out of it. She did, however, call me a Step Monster for the deceitful effort and that’s a title I’ll relish forever. I felt like a success that day and now I feel like a failure. Maybe all those years I spent plotting and wreaking havoc, I was just a middle-talent faux ma?
With all this free time, I decided to join Instagram and troll my stepdaughter while she’s away at college (follow me @theogstepmumsie). I leave comments on her posts like “everyone laughs at clowns, but no one dates them” or #underdressedhotmess. My account has started gaining followers — not as many as Marjorie Taylor Greene but then I’ve yet to bully a school shooting survivor. Even though she doesn’t have stepkids, she has such a nefarious way with kids that I truly admire.
Maybe it’s not the support group that I needed after all but rather social media to help me level-up my devilish ways. Why limit my atrocious talents to the hearth and home when I can spread my diabolical traditions across Instagram and TikTok? If I can scheme with Philip Morris or LuLaRoe to create sponsored content, I can become the first wicked stepmother social media influencer. I realize I’m just learning how to command a hashtag but somehow this feels right. And those manicures aren’t going to pay for themselves.
