A Taste Of Teresa Cortez

Teresa’s Pov

Mothers are supposed to love you unconditionally, right? Protect you. Sacrifice for you.

Mine watches me get fucked by strangers and then locks herself in her room to get off to the memory. Sometimes she watches.

Yeah. That kind of mother.

Hi. I’m Teresa. I'm twenty-one years old. My real mom died when I was twelve, she died of cancer. Dad remarried less than two years later. He married Caroline. Dr. Caroline goddamn Cortez, a respected psychologist, savior of addicts, one-on-one therapist to the broken and the rich.

She smiled at me when she got newly wedded to my dad, held my hand like she gave a shit, and six years later my dad dropped dead of a heart attack in the driveway. Left me everything. And nothing. Because everything now belongs to her.

The house. The money. Me.

I’m sitting at the dining-room table pretending to scroll on my phone while Caroline laughs too loud at something the guy next to her says. He’s new. They’re always new. Slick hair, cheap cologne, wedding ring tan line he thinks no one notices. His hand is already on her thigh under the tablecloth. She’s wearing the red dress she saves for nights she wants to feel young.

I push my chair back. “I’m going to bed.”

She doesn’t even look up. Just waves a manicured hand like I’m a fly. The guy leers at me….which means Caroline’s told him things, I can tell by the way his eyes drag over my body. She likes them to look. Sometimes she makes them do more than look.

I escape upstairs, lock my door even though locks don’t matter in this house, and lie on top of the covers fully dressed. Shoes and all. Ready to run if I have to. I never run far enough.

An hour later the headboard next door starts slamming against the wall. Caroline’s voice, breathy and fake-sweet: “Harder. From behind—yes, like that. Fuck me like you mean it.”

I shove my face into the pillow and scream until my throat tastes like rust. The walls are thin on purpose. She had them thinned after Dad died. Soundproofing is for people with something to hide, she said once, smirking.

Morning comes gray and exhausted. I drag myself downstairs, make coffee I don’t drink, start the chores that never end. Dishes, laundry, floors. Whatever keeps my hands busy and my mind blank. Caroline breezes in wearing yesterday’s makeup and a silk robe that doesn’t close properly.

“You’re coming with me today,” she says, pouring coffee into a travel mug.

“Where?”

“To work, darling.” She smiles with all her teeth. “Bring Your child to Work Day.”

My stomach drops. “I don’t feel good.”

Caroline sets the mug down very gently. The smile doesn’t move, but something cold slides behind her eyes. “You don’t have a choice, Teresa.”

I drag myself back in my room and the first thing I grab is a faded gray flair gown that hangs to mid-thigh and my old combat boots. It’s not even revealing, but I know the rules don’t matter. Nothing I wear is ever right.

I don’t bother with makeup. What’s the point? Caroline will still find something to insult.

When I come back, they’re on the couch, Caroline straddling James like they’re teenagers. His hands are up her skirt, her tongue down his throat. The wet sounds make my stomach flip.

This woman walks out in public wearing a polished smile, celebrated for “saving people’s minds.” If only they knew she was the monster who destroyed mine.

I clear my throat loud enough to rattle the windows.

Caroline peels herself off him and looks me over like I just crawled out of a dumpster.

“What the hell is that?”

“Clothes,” I mutter.

“Don’t test me, Teresa. You look like you’re begging to be touched.”

Before I can step back, James is already up, crossing the room in three lazy strides. His hand lands on my ass with a hard, possessive squeeze.

“Soft,” he says, grinning at Caroline like he’s grading meat.

Caroline laughs, low and syrupy. “Hands off the merchandise, James.”

In my head I repeat his name slowly.

James. A stupid name for a stupid man.

He winks at me and I want to bite his face off.

Caroline grabs my chin so hard her nails dig in. “Go change. Now. Something that doesn’t scream fuck me.”

I swallow blood where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek. “Okay.”

Upstairs again. I rip the gown off and yank on the baggiest jeans I own and a men’s flannel shirt I stole from Dad’s old stuff two years ago. It smells like dust and the ghost of him. I leave my red hair wild because brushing it feels like caring too much.

When I come down the second time, Caroline barely glances.

“Better,” she says, like the word tastes bad.

James pulls her in for one last sloppy kiss, then slaps her ass on his way out. He throws me another wink. I hope he crashes his Audi on the way home.

Caroline doesn’t wait. She’s already at the door, keys swinging. She never calls me; I’m supposed to follow like a dog that knows its leash. I do.

The car smells like her perfume and last night’s sex. She drives too fast, classical music blasting to drown out any chance of talking. I stare at my phone which has cracked screen, the only thing she lets me keep because it’s cheaper than listening to me beg for a new one.

We pulled into the parking lot of Whitmore Rehabilitation Center. White building, manicured hedges, a sign out front that says HOPE STARTS HERE in gold letters. People actually believe it.

She kills the engine and finally looks at me.

“Rules,” she says. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t wander. Anyone asks who you are, you’re my stepdaughter and you’re here for bring your child to work day. One wrong word and you know what happens when we get home. Clear?

She waits but I didn’t answer.

“I said, clear?”

“Yes,” I whisper.