I met Zach by chance in a coffee line. I was reading when he teased, “Is the book better than the coffee? That’s rare among modern girls.” I smiled. That was the beginning.
One latte turned into late-night talks, taco dinners, and thoughtful surprises. Zach listened—really listened. I started to believe in “maybe” again.
After six good months, Zach said, “I want you to meet my daughter, Emma.” I was surprised but open. Emma was sweet but shy. At first, it felt right—like we could be a family.
But when I moved in, things changed. Emma judged everything I did and created a strange point system for my actions. Zach brushed it off as her adjusting.
Then one night, I found a note under Emma’s pillow:
“Give Sophie scores. Compare her to Mom. If things don’t go your way—cry. Daddy will do anything. Love, Mom.”
It wasn’t just Emma—it was manipulation, rehearsed.
I overheard a call where her mom told Emma to “stick to the list.” Emma saw me listening. Later, in tears, she asked me not to tell Zach, fearing he’d stop loving her.
I promised I’d be there for her.
At her recital, her mom didn’t show—but I did. Afterward, Emma hugged me tightly and told Zach everything. He didn’t blame her. He just held her.
Soon after, Emma moved in—with us. Her choice. Her mom didn’t fight it.
She wasn’t just Zach’s daughter anymore.
She was ours.
And I was ready to love her—for real.
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