It was from being seen. My stepfather apologized quietly, without excuses, admitting he had let grief turn into something ugly. I didn’t know if I could forgive him yet, but I knew one thing for certain—I had never been unloved.
I left the house again that day, but I wasn’t empty anymore. I carried her words with me, her truth, her certainty. And in that, I found something stronger than inheritance: a love that no one could rewrite, and no one could ever take away.
