Chapter 3
Karen filed the paperwork the following Monday.
The house. The trust. The stolen funds. Everything.
The sheriff served Gwendolyn at the house. She was in the middle of filming a "day in my life" video for Chloe's channel when the doorbell rang. I heard about it later — the look on her face when she read the papers. The way she screamed. The way Chloe's video captured every second of it before the camera was shut off.
That video leaked. Of course it did. Chloe's followers saw everything. The eviction notice. The fraud allegations. The words "grand theft" in bold print.
Chloe's social media career — the one she'd wanted my bedroom for — imploded overnight. Brands dropped her. Followers unfollowed. The comments were brutal.
Gwendolyn called me, screaming. "You're destroying us! You're destroying this family!"
"This family was destroyed a long time ago," I said. And I hung up.
My father called that night. His voice was small. Tired.
"Paige," he said. "Can we talk? Please. Just — just me and you."
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to say no. Part of me was still that girl at the dinner table, waiting for him to speak.
"Okay," I said. "Tomorrow. At a coffee shop. Not at the house."
He came. He looked older. Tired. His shirt was wrinkled. He hadn't shaved.
We sat in a booth by the window. He ordered black coffee. He didn't touch it.
"I didn't know," he said. "About the will. About the house. About the trust. She handled everything. I let her. I was — I was checked out. After your mother died, I was just — gone. And Gwendolyn filled the space. I let her. I'm sorry, Paige. I'm so sorry."
I looked at him. This man. My father. The man who'd carried me upstairs when I fell asleep on the couch. The man who'd taught me to ride a bike. The man who'd sat silent at a hundred dinner tables while his wife tore his daughter down.
"I believe you," I said. "But sorry doesn't fix it, Dad. You let her do this. You let her steal from me. You let her make me feel like a stranger in my own home. And when I needed you — at that dinner table — you said nothing."
He closed his eyes. Tears ran down his face. "I know. I know. And I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. If you'll let me."
I thought about it. For a long time.
"I'm not ready," I said finally. "I don't know if I ever will be. But — I'm not closing the door. Not completely. You can't live in my house anymore. You can't be with her. But if you want to try — really try — to be my dad again, you can start by telling the truth. In court. About everything you know."
He looked at me. And for the first time in nine years, I saw my father again. Not the silent ghost. Not the man who hid behind mashed potatoes. My father.
"I'll testify," he said. "Everything. I'll tell them everything."
May you like
I nodded. I stood up. I left him there, at the coffee shop, with his cold coffee and his regrets.
And I drove home — to my home — feeling lighter than I had in years.
