My dad treated me terribly growing up and adored my stepsister, so I left home at sixteen. After he died, she screamed at me for attending the funeral. A week later, his lawyer told me Dad had left me everything—along with a letter apologizing for the years of neglect and explaining he’d blamed me for my mom’s death.
At the house, Tessa confronted me again, but as I sorted through Dad’s things, I found drawings of mine he’d saved and my mom’s old records. Slowly, the place started to feel less painful. I fixed it up, got help from neighbors, and even Tessa eventually apologized, bringing me a photo of my mom holding me.
I rebuilt the house, planted wildflowers, and opened a small art space in the garage. In the end, it all came down to choosing healing over bitterness.
