My father died suddenly at forty-seven. Everyone said it was a shock—but what hurt most was what came after. My stepmom of fourteen years didn’t cry. The next morning, she packed up, took her son, and left without a word. I hated her for abandoning me.
For thirteen years, I carried that anger—until her son came to my door after she passed. He revealed the truth: my father had been sick for years, hiding it to protect me, and my stepmom had loved him deeply. She couldn’t stay in the house after he died, and my grandmother forced her to leave without saying goodbye.
She had left me a letter and part of her inheritance—a quiet, loving gesture I had never understood. Only then did I finally release the bitterness I had carried for so long.