I was 11 when Mom died. One day she kissed my forehead before a sleepover; the next, she was gone. After that, the house—and Dad—changed. He grieved, distanced himself, and eventually married Sharon.
Sharon was nice at first. Her daughter, Mia, felt like a real sister. I believed we had a second chance. I was wrong.
After boarding school, I returned home for college. While unpacking, Sharon handed me a spreadsheet—rent, utilities, groceries. Dad called it a “lesson.” I swallowed my pride and paid.
For two years, I juggled classes, work, and childcare. Then Sharon told me I had a week to move out—they needed my room for the new baby. Dad didn’t stop her.
I called Aunt Claire, who called Grandpa. He arrived, spoke to Dad and Sharon, then offered me a choice: live with him, Aunt Claire, or in one of his apartments—rent-free. He also gave me a check for $15,000, the exact rent I’d paid. Turns out, the house was Grandpa’s all along.
I moved into the apartment, and for the first time in years, I could breathe. Sharon later called, furious. I hung up.
Grandpa told me she tried to manipulate him too. His reply? “She’s my daughter’s child. I’ll always choose her.”
I kept my distance after that. The hardest part was Mia. She called, crying. I couldn’t promise to return, but I promised this: “I’m still your sister. Always.”
Thanks to Grandpa, I finally understood what real family means.
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