Louis seized the moment. “Babe, you don’t have to take this. It’s your inheritance. You shouldn’t have to live with someone who doesn’t support your happiness.”
And then my daughter said the words that shattered my world. “Get out,” she whispered, then louder, “Get out! This is my house now, and I want you gone!”
I felt my knees go weak. “Amber, please. You don’t mean this.”
“I do mean it!” she sobbed. “Pack your things and leave. I can’t have you poisoning my relationship anymore. I can’t have you ruining my chance at happiness!”
I looked at her face and saw nothing but anger and pain. Even as she screamed at me to leave, even as Louis smirked behind her shoulder, I found myself praying silently. God, please protect her. Please give her wisdom. Please keep her safe, even if I can’t be there to do it myself.
I packed a single suitcase that evening and left the house I’d called home for 25 years. As I drove away, I saw Louis’s car already parked in my driveway, and I knew he was moving in before my taillights had even disappeared.
I stayed at a friend’s place for a few days before renting a tiny one-bedroom apartment across town and throwing myself into work. I picked up extra shifts at the hardware store, anything to keep my mind off the empty silence where my daughter’s voice used to be.
Six months later, Mrs. Patterson from my old neighborhood stopped by the store. “Robert, I thought you should know,” she said quietly, “Amber had a baby boy. She named him Allen.”
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