My stepmother tried to kick me out while I was pregnant with twins, but my dad had one final surprise that changed everything. I’m Emily. I’m 24, and right now, I feel like life’s taken a baseball bat to my ribs and just keeps swinging.
It’s not like things were always perfect. I was never one of those girls with a fairytale life, but I got by. I was working part-time at a local bookstore, trying to finish my college degree, and living in a modest little apartment with Ethan.
He wasn’t just my boyfriend; he was also my best friend — the kind of guy who held my hand when I was scared and laughed like sunshine on rainy days. He worked as a mechanic, with oil-stained fingers and the softest heart. Then one night, he simply didn’t come home.
The knock at the door changed everything. The officer didn’t have to say much, just the words “car crash” and “instant,” and my world broke into pieces. Every corner of our apartment reminded me of him, and the silence pressed down heavier than the grief itself.
For a while, I couldn’t breathe or eat. I just curled up in our bed, wrapped in one of his old hoodies, trying to remember how to exist. Then the nausea hit, relentless and unshakable.
I thought it was grief making me sick, until the doctor told me I was pregnant with twins. Twins. Ethan would’ve cried happy tears.
Me? I was terrified. I was barely functioning, and now I had two lives growing inside me.
The doctor told me my pregnancy was high-risk. I had to go on strict bed rest and be constantly monitored. I couldn’t live alone anymore.
I didn’t have many options. My mom passed when I was a teen, and Ethan’s parents had retired and moved to Arizona. So, I called my dad.
Dad’s house wasn’t really his house anymore, not since he remarried Veronica. She was much younger than he was, glamorous in a sharp-edged, magazine-cover kind of way, with shiny blonde hair and perfect nails that never looked like they’d done a day’s work. Still, I hoped we could make it work.
I needed help, and he was all I had. Dad welcomed me without hesitation. He hugged me tight when I arrived, his gray eyes kind and tired.
“This is your home, sweetheart,” he said, holding my face like I was still 10. In that moment, the weight on my chest lifted just enough for me to breathe again. Veronica wasn’t exactly thrilled.
She smiled, but it was tight and thin-lipped — the kind of smile you give when someone steps on your brand-new rug. She didn’t say much at first, just gave me a quick once-over and muttered something about “timing.”
I did everything I could to stay out of her way. I stayed in the guest room, kept quiet, cleaned up after myself, and thanked her for every meal.
She never raised her voice, but she watched me like a hawk. Every time I shuffled down the hallway or asked Dad for help getting into the bath, I felt her eyes on me. Still, I told myself it was fine.
Temporary. Dad loved having me there. He’d sit by my bed and rub my feet or tell me old stories from when I was a baby.
He even brought me little things: a new pillow, herbal tea, and a stuffed animal for the twins. But then he got sick. It happened so suddenly — just a few days of fatigue, and then he was gone.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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