06/23/2025
When I was ten, my mom died. Dad stayed strong for a few years, but when I turned fourteen, he remarried — Cheryl. She smiled way too much when others were watching and got angry too quickly when they weren’t. She never laid a hand on me, but I always felt like an outsider.
When Dad died suddenly from a heart attack five years later — I was nineteen — Cheryl didn’t even wait for the funeral arrangements to end.
Two days later, she stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded, and said coldly, “YOU’RE NOT FAMILY ANYMORE. LEAVE.”
No compassion. No softness. Just ice.
I left with only a duffel bag and my guitar. That night, I stayed at my best friend’s house, staring at the ceiling, wondering how grief could feel like both fire and ice.
The next morning, I went back to grab the rest of my things. But when I arrived at the house, the one built by my great-grandfather where I grew up, I saw five black SUVs parked outside.
My heart dropped. I thought Cheryl had hired security to keep me out.
But when I rang the bell, the door slowly opened, and Cheryl looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
“Oh! You’re here!” she said, voice sweet but strange. “I was just… about to call you, sweetheart.”
I blinked, confused. “What’s happening?” (check in the first comment👇)