On Father’s Day, I wanted to thank Gary—the man who stepped in when my real dad disappeared. He’d been kind, steady, never forced a bond, just quietly there. After Mom passed, we stayed connected enough. Now, at 25, I brought lemon bars, a book, and a heartfelt card to say thanks.
But through the open window, I overheard Gary mocking Mom and me. He admitted he stayed only for the house and that my real dad’s letters—letters wanting to reconnect—were all trashed by him.
I confronted him. His lies crushed me. I dropped the card I wrote and walked away.
Weeks later, I learned from Mom’s will that the house was left solely to me. Gary wasn’t mentioned. I served him an eviction notice. He left without protest.
As I watched him go, I felt the weight lift. Mom would’ve been proud—not just that I reclaimed the house, but that I found my voice and my worth.
