My father didn’t just prefer sons—he resented daughters. I was the first of four girls, and from the moment I was born, he made it clear I was a disappointment. No hugs. No pride. Just silence. When my sisters came—Rachel, Lily, and Ava—his bitterness deepened. Each new daughter was a reminder of the son he never had.
So he found a solution: he shipped us off to Grandma Louise, one by one. I was barely a year old. He waited just long enough to keep up appearances, then packed our bags like we were clutter he couldn’t bear. Grandma loved us fiercely, but she never fought him—afraid he’d cut off contact completely. Mom didn’t stop him either. She was young, worn down, and emotionally absent. We weren’t hated—we were simply unwanted.
We grew up in Grandma’s quiet home, surrounded by bedtime stories and cookies, but haunted by the knowledge that our own parents had discarded us. I carried that ache into adulthood. And when I turned 19, I decided to confront it—not with rage, but with resolve.
I became the daughter he never saw coming. I studied hard, built a life, and when he tried to reconnect—out of guilt or convenience—I made him face the truth. Through legal channels, I ensured he couldn’t exploit us again. In court, he called me his biggest mistake. But I stood tall, not for revenge, but for dignity.
He wanted a son. What he got was four daughters who rose above his rejection—and one who made sure he’d never forget it.
