I got a full-time job. The panic in my chest stopped being constant. We had routines.
Sunday pancakes. Homework at the kitchen table. Movie nights when we could afford them.
We were still grieving, still stretched thin, but we were managing at least. Then one Sunday morning, I was making pancakes when someone knocked on the door. I opened it without thinking.
And there he was. My father. He smiled and looked past me into the house.
“Wow,” he said. “You’ve really settled in nicely here.”
I just stared at him. Behind me, I heard a chair scrape.
One of my sisters had heard his voice. I stepped outside and pulled the door mostly shut behind me. “What do you want?”
He folded his arms.
“I’m here about the house.”
My stomach dropped. “What about it?”
“Your mother is gone,” he said. “So this place comes back to me.”
I said, “What?”
He said it slower, like I was stupid.
“You and the girls have had time. Now I need you to move out.”
I laughed. It came out cold.
He shrugged. “You’re an adult. Figure it out.”
I stared at him.
“You left us.”
He sighed like I was being difficult. “Don’t start that. I moved on.
That happens.”
Then he lowered his voice. “Listen. My girlfriend and I want to move in here, but she doesn’t like kids.
So either you leave quietly, or I take you to court and get custody. A judge might prefer a father over a 24-year-old girl pretending to be a parent.”
Then I smiled. Not because I was calm.
Because I was angry enough to think clearly. “Of course,” I said. “You’re right.
Come back tomorrow. I’ll have the documents ready.”
Then he left. I closed the door and stood there for a second.
My sister Maya was in the hallway. “Was that him?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he want?”
I looked toward the kitchen, where the younger ones were waiting for pancakes and trusting me to keep them safe. That day, I made calls.
