It had been five years, three months, and twelve days since my stepdaughter, Grace, walked out of my life. I knew because I crossed off every day on the crooked calendar still hanging in the kitchen—the one she rattled loose when she slammed the door for the last time.
I’d raised Grace since she was four. Taught her to tie her shoes, scared off her prom dates, rebuilt cars with her in the garage. I never legally adopted her, but I was the only father she’d ever known.
Then my wife, Jean, died suddenly of an aneurysm. Grace was eighteen, shattered by grief, and needed someone to blame. That someone became me.
Years later, I donated Jean’s untouched clothes to a family who’d lost everything in a fire. I believed Jean would’ve wanted that. Grace didn’t. She told me I wasn’t her father, that I didn’t matter anymore—and she left.
For five years, I tried everything. Calls. Letters. Silence.
Then last week, a delivery truck dropped a massive box on my porch. I hadn’t ordered anything. The return label had one letter: G.
Inside was a heavy shape wrapped in a moving blanket. When I pulled it back, the smell of oil and metal hit me—and I collapsed.
It was the restored V8 engine block from the 1967 Mustang Grace and I had worked on together before Jean died. Perfectly machined. Painted the color I’d wanted.
She hadn’t spent five years hating me. She’d spent them finishing what we started.
Tucked inside was a letter.
“Dear Dad… I took the engine when I left. I spent five years learning how to finish it the right way. I needed to grow up before I could fix us. Please don’t sell the garage. We still have work to do.”
At the bottom of the box was a photo of Grace holding a newborn baby boy—my grandson—and a plane ticket for the next day.
I took down the For Sale sign.
I’m going to see my daughter. And I’m not going anywhere.