With a cold smile, he said, “Don’t act sh0cked. Stepkids come and go—blood is what truly matters.” I said nothing—not because I agreed, but because the grief already felt heavy enough without adding anger to it.
Day after day, I had cooked her meals, helped her take slow, painful walks through the living room, and stayed by her side when the pain made her lose hope.
I never expected gratitude or reward. All that mattered to me was that she didn’t feel abandoned.
His cruel pride hurt, but I let it go, trusting that time has a way of revealing the truth.
Before sunrise the next morning, my phone rang.
His voice sounded strained and frightened—nothing like the confidence he had shown the day before.
“Come to Mom’s. Now,” he said. I rushed over with unease settling in my chest, unsure what could have shaken him so deeply.
When I entered the house, I stopped short—not out of fear, but because everything felt strangely different. Her bedroom door, always kept closed, was now open, allowing the soft morning light to spill across the floor.
The air carried a faint, familiar hint of her lavender lotion. I moved slowly down the hallway, wrapped in a calm I couldn’t explain.
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