After years of silence, my estranged mom showed up unannounced, cheerful but sharp. She’d kicked me out at 15, and now, with Dad gone, she demanded a share of his inheritance.
The day he died, a part of me went with him. Dad had been my anchor, supporting me through everything Mom tried to take away. He left his estate to me, and I shared it with his siblings—the real family who showed up, stayed, and loved without keeping score.
Mom’s visit quickly turned into accusations, guilt trips, and demands for money. Calmly, I challenged her lies about raising me alone. She sputtered, her narrative collapsing, and I finally told her to leave.
That night, as her texts poured in, I switched off my phone and cried—not just for Dad, but for the girl who needed a mother and got a manipulator instead.
For the first time, I felt free. Dad had chosen me, and that was enough.
