My stepdad never treated me like family. Just before my bachelorette trip, Mom called: “Your father’s in the hospital. He’s dying. You should cancel and come help me.”
I replied coldly: “He’s your husband — your duty.” Then I boarded the plane. The next morning I pulled back the curtains in my beachside suite — and froze. Floating just offshore was a sleek white yacht: his yacht. The one he guarded like treasure, never let me near.
Later, the hotel concierge delivered an envelope. Inside: the boat’s title and a handwritten letter:
“I know I wasn’t good at showing it, but I loved you… I hope this boat gives you the freedom I never gave you. Love, Dad.”
He died that very morning. While I was celebrating. I never said goodbye. I never gave him a chance.
For years I believed I didn’t matter to him. But clearly — I did. And when it mattered most, I turned away. The guilt won’t leave me. I feel ashamed. And what hurts the most: my mom won’t even speak to me.