When I was 11, my dad brought home Paula—his mistress—and it shattered everything. That night, she sauntered into our living room flaunting perfume and confidence, while my mother stood trembling, coffee mug slipping from her hands.
“My daughter and your mother,” he said without meaning, “it’s time for you both to go.” And just like that—my home, my childhood—vanished under his cold indifference.
We were left homeless. Every question, “Where do we go?” met with his icy reply: “You should’ve thought about that before you became so boring.” My mother carried me into the night, leaving behind everything we knew and loved.
Twenty years passed with us building our lives from the ground up. I worked twice as hard, studying while supporting Mom. We forged a stability born from resilience, not entitlement.
Then one day, my father showed up—older, desperate. “I need my share of the inheritance,” he demanded, as if the last two decades never existed. The same man who shattered our world was now claiming the home I had helped build.
I led him inside, blinds down, and showed him the foundation of our lives—the rebuilt walls, the photos of our milestones, the love he abandoned. He recoiled. He had traded a home for a mistress, and now I was holding him accountable for what he’d broken.
