My dad never wanted daughters. After four girls—me, Hannah, then Rachel, Lily, and Ava—he grew bitter. He dropped each of us at Grandma Louise’s house, saying we “didn’t count.” Mom didn’t fight him; she seemed too broken to care. We grew up with Grandma’s love, but without our parents.
When I was nine, I learned they’d had a son, Benjamin. Dad lit up with joy for him—the father we never had. From then on, we were forgotten. Years later, when I was 17, a lawyer came about Grandpa Henry, who’d built a fortune and was dying. Dad, hearing about the inheritance, suddenly wanted us back.
They took us home under the pretense of “reconnecting,” but it was clear they only wanted money. Benjamin treated us like servants while Dad barked orders. I finally ran to Henry, who welcomed me with tears in his eyes. He called Grandma, vowing to make things right after decades of absence.
With the help of Henry’s lawyer niece, we proved Dad had abandoned us. Custody went to Grandma, and Henry left everything to us girls—nothing to Dad, Mom, or Benjamin. Dad raged, then disappeared. Henry spent his final years giving us the love we’d missed. Before passing, he whispered, “I’m glad I did something right in the end.”
