The air was thick with tension as I stood in the living room, glaring at my stepdaughter Janie. She was sprawled on the couch, her miniskirt riding up to reveal her thong, a defiant smirk on her face. At 20, she was a rebellious handful, always pushing my buttons.

“Clean up this mess, now,” I growled, pointing at the beer cans and pizza boxes littering the coffee table.

Janie rolled her eyes. “Make me, Daddy,” she taunted, stretching like a lazy cat. Her crop top rode up, exposing her toned midriff.

I felt my blood boil. Enough was enough. In two strides I was upon her, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her feet.

“Ow! Let go of me, you brute!” she yelped, trying to wriggle free.

“Not until you learn some respect,” I snarled. I dragged her towards the bathroom. “You’re going to help me with something, and then maybe you’ll understand who’s in charge around here.”