When I first noticed my future stepdaughter, Amila, waking up early to cook breakfast and clean the house, I thought it was adorable. At just seven years old, she seemed unusually responsible, and I admired her for it. But my admiration quickly turned into concern when I uncovered the devastating reason behind her routine.
It started gradually. I’d hear her tiny footsteps on the stairs before dawn, and by the time I got out of bed, the kitchen would be spotless, with breakfast already on the table. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, toast—she made it all with the precision of a professional.
At first, I thought she was just an eager, curious child. Maybe she enjoyed helping out. But soon, I realized this wasn’t just a hobby—it was her daily ritual.
One morning, I found her carefully scooping coffee grounds into the machine. Standing on a stool in her rainbow pajamas, her dark hair tied in pigtails, she worked with a focus far beyond her years.
“You’re up early again, sweetheart,” I said softly.
She turned and flashed a gap-toothed smile. “I wanted everything to be ready when you and Daddy woke up. Do you like the coffee? I learned how to make it myself!”
Her pride was palpable, but something about her eagerness unsettled me. While most kids her age were still dreaming about princesses and adventures, Amila was trying to perfect her homemaking skills.
“That’s very thoughtful, but you don’t need to do all this,” I told her. “Why don’t you sleep in tomorrow? I can handle breakfast.”
Her smile faded, and she shook her head. “No, I like doing it. Really.”
Her voice wavered, and the desperation in her tone sent a chill through me. No child should feel so anxious about skipping chores.
Ryan, my fiancé, wandered into the kitchen just then, stretching and yawning. “Smells amazing!” he said, ruffling her hair. “You’re such a good little homemaker.”
I cringed at his words, watching Amila’s face light up with pride. It didn’t feel right.
This became our routine: Amila waking up before dawn, me worrying more each day, and Ryan accepting her efforts as normal. But I couldn’t ignore the dark circles under her eyes or the way she flinched if she spilled something. It wasn’t just endearing anymore—it was alarming.
One morning, I decided to ask her about it. As she wiped the dining table with a cloth, I knelt beside her.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do all this,” I said gently. “You’re just a kid. We’re supposed to take care of you, not the other way around.”
Her small shoulders tensed, and she kept scrubbing the table. “I just want to make sure everything’s perfect,” she whispered.
There was something in her voice that made my heart ache.
I took the cloth from her trembling hands and softly asked, “Amila, why are you working so hard? Are you trying to impress us?”
She hesitated, then looked down, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. Finally, she murmured, “I heard Daddy tell Uncle Jack that if a woman doesn’t wake up early, cook, and do chores, no one will love her or marry her.”
Her lip quivered as she added, “I don’t want Daddy to stop loving me.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. This little girl had taken her father’s careless remarks to heart, believing she had to earn his love by overworking herself.
“This stops now,” I muttered to myself.
The next morning, after Amila made yet another elaborate breakfast, I wheeled the lawnmower into the kitchen. “Ryan, could you mow the lawn today? And don’t forget to edge the corners.”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
The following day, I handed him a pile of laundry. “Can you fold these and clean the windows while you’re at it?”
By day three, I asked him to reorganize the garage and clean out the gutters. He frowned, clearly puzzled. “What’s with all the chores lately?”
I smiled sweetly. “Oh, nothing. I just want to make sure you’re useful. After all, if you’re not pulling your weight, why would I marry you?”
His jaw dropped. “What? Where is this coming from?”
I took a deep breath and looked him square in the eye. “Ryan, your daughter wakes up every day to cook and clean because she overheard you saying a woman’s worth is tied to her chores. She thinks your love for her depends on how well she takes care of us.”
His face paled as the realization sank in. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammered.
“Intent doesn’t matter,” I snapped. “She’s seven, Ryan. She’s not your maid or a stand-in partner. She needs to know your love is unconditional. You owe her an apology.”
That evening, I stood outside Amila’s door as Ryan went in.
“Sweetheart,” he began, his voice soft, “I need to talk to you. You overheard something I said about your mom, and it made you feel like you have to work hard for me to love you. That’s not true. I love you because you’re my daughter, not because of what you do.”
“Really?” Her voice was small, almost disbelieving.
“Really,” Ryan said, his voice cracking. “Even if you never make breakfast again, I will always love you.”
Through the door, I heard her sniffle, then the sound of them hugging.
In the weeks that followed, Ryan became more mindful of his words and actions. He started sharing household responsibilities and made sure Amila knew she was loved for who she was, not what she did.
Love, I realized, isn’t just about grand gestures or warm feelings. It’s about having tough conversations, breaking harmful cycles, and building a healthier future.
As we sat down for breakfast one morning—no one sacrificing their sleep or childhood—I looked at my little family and smiled.
Toxic traditions? Not in my house.