My dad discarded my sisters and me like junk mail—just because we weren’t boys. I was only five when I realized he didn’t love us. With each daughter born, his silence grew colder, his disappointment heavier. By the time Ava arrived, he quietly dropped us off with Grandma, one by one, like we were errors he could erase.
At Grandma Louise’s house, we found love in bedtime stories, warm meals, and handmade birthday cakes. Mom and Dad rarely called—until the day Benjamin was born, the son they always dreamed of. They visited once to show him off like a trophy, then vanished again. The sting of being forgotten faded into numbness.
Years later, when Grandpa Henry was dying and left everything to his granddaughters, Dad showed up with fake smiles and a moving truck. He claimed he wanted us “home,” but it was all about the inheritance. We were just his ticket to a payout. After three weeks of silence and servitude, I walked six miles to tell Henry the truth.
Henry didn’t hesitate. With Grandma and a fierce lawyer on our side, we fought back—and won. Full custody went to Grandma, and every cent stayed with us girls. Dad was left with nothing but regret. In his final years, Henry gave us what we’d never had: a grandfather’s love. When he passed, holding my hand, he whispered, “At least I got this part right.” And he did.