The day before the extreme heat disaster hit, my husband brought home his "childhood sweetheart." She'd just gotten divorced, had nowhere to stay, and needed to crash with us for a few days. I wasn't on board. He said I was petty and couldn't stand to see anyone else do well. My stepson called me a mean, wicked stepmother and told his dad to kick me out and keep this aunt instead. The next day, the sun went haywire. Temperatures spiked to a hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit, and we were all trapped indoors. I told my husband we didn't have enough food and water for three people. He called me selfish and cold-hearted, said I was basically pushing her to die. The heatwave dragged on for eighteen days. The three of them ate through every last scrap in the house. When FEMA finally airdropped supplies and ice blocks, my husband, my stepson, and the "childhood sweetheart" grabbed everything for themselves. I was already lightheaded from the heat and reached for a piece of ice. My stepson shoved me away with his foot. "You've got more body fat and you handle heat better. Don't waste the ice." They banished me to the glass sunroom with no AC. I baked to death in that sweltering box. When I opened my eyes again, it was the day before the heatwave. My husband asked if she could stay. I smiled and said yes. This time around, I'm kicking back with the AC blasting, eating ice cream, and watching them tear each other apart over a single drop of water.