My stepbrother

I was fifteen years old when I learned that wickedness never ends the way people plan it.
My life changed the day my mother died. She was my comfort, my protector, the one who made our small house feel warm even when money was scarce. After her burial, the house became quiet, too quiet. My father tried his best, but grief made him distant, and soon he remarried. That was when darkness entered my life wearing the face of a stepmother.
At first, she pretended to be kind. She smiled often when my father was around and spoke softly, calling me “my son.” But once my father left for work, her true nature showed. She shouted at me for small mistakes, sent me on endless errands, and treated me like a stranger in my own home.
Food became the clearest sign of her hatred. She cooked watery, tasteless meals for me, sometimes burnt or half-done. But for herself and her son my stepbrother she prepared delicious food with meat and chicken. Whenever I complained, she would say, “Be grateful you have food at all.”
Everything became worse the day I overheard my father discussing his will with a friend. That night, my stepmother’s eyes changed. From that moment, her wickedness grew deeper. She watched me closely, spoke less, and smiled in a way that made my stomach turn.
She wanted her son to inherit everything.
One afternoon, my stepbrother and I returned from school, tired and hungry. My stepmother was unusually quiet. The house smelled of fried rice and chicken a smell I had not enjoyed in a long time. My heart sank because I already knew that food was not meant for me.
When it was time to eat, my stepbrother ran happily into the kitchen. On the table was a plate of fried rice and chicken. Beside it sat a cup of soaked garri. I didn’t need anyone to explain it. The rice was for him. The garri was for me.
I carried the garri quietly to the corner of the room and drank it. As I did, I noticed my stepmother watching us, her eyes fixed on me. There was something strange in her expression, something cold.
Suddenly, my stepbrother screamed.
He dropped the spoon and began vomiting blood. Panic filled the house. Before I could even stand up, my stepmother rushed toward him, shouting his name over and over. Her voice was shaking, not with shock, but with fear.
Then she screamed words that froze my blood.
“Hope you didn’t eat the rice! Hope you didn’t eat the rice!”
She rushed into the parlour and saw her son on the floor, vomiting blood. She screamed loudly, pulling her hair.
“The rice isn’t for you!” she shouted.
In that moment, the truth became clear like lightning in a dark sky.
She had poisoned the rice.
Not for her son but for me.
She wanted me dead so that her son could inherit all my father’s property. But fate had turned against her. The wicked trap she set caught the person she loved the most.
My stepbrother died before help could arrive.
When my father returned and heard everything, the house was filled with cries and confusion. Doctors confirmed the poison. Neighbors whispered. The police came. My stepmother could not explain herself. Her lies collapsed under the weight of her own evil.
She lost her son. She lost her freedom. She lost everything.
As for me, I survived not because of strength, but because truth protected me.
That day taught me a lesson I will never forget: wickedness may plan carefully, but it never controls the ending. Evil always destroys itself.
And karma, though slow, never forgets an address.