I hate my stepmother as much as anyone does. As much as anyone could. In fact, I was first to hate her. For a decade, my siblings argued that she was not, in fact, Satan incarnate. I disagreed. I'm not sure what brought the rest of them around, but if I had to bet, I'd guess it was when she wanted to show the entire family a videotape of my father's drunken, cross-dressing antics, the family declined, and a week later she put on "Cinderella" for my young nieces only to discover, far too late for my nieces' emotional well being, that the video was in fact the dad footage.
Whatever the reason, my siblings all hate her now. Just how much they hate her is evidenced in their latest scheme. They're enormously pleased with their cleverness. They tell me about the scheme every time we speak. After my stepmother dies and is planted next to my dad as planned, my siblings are going to dig my dad up and rebury him next to our mother. Never mind that none of these three people would have chosen this arrangement. Never mind that my siblings will be gleefully spiting someone who'll be, well, too dead to know. Or care. Never mind that Dad beat Mom and that she loathed him. There's history to be revised, dammit, and money to be wasted on impotent spite.
Yep. These are my relatives.
"You have to post about this," says Allie. "No one would believe how petty your stupid family really is." The executor of my estate then grows contemplative. "Hmmm. Does this mean the spot next to your stepmother will be open?"