They barred me from the doorway like I was trespassing on a life I’d helped build. On the way home, it felt as if my memories had been preemptively stolen, as though love required their signatures to exist. For days, I mourned not only him, but the self they were determined to write out of the story, the daughter they refused to name.
When the lawyer finally called, his voice carried a weight I recognized. The box he placed in my hands was small and worn, filled with proof no one could veto: fishing photos, forgotten certificates, and letters—one for every year he chose to raise me. In each line, he named me as his own. The will at the bottom didn’t argue or explain; it simply placed me beside the others, equal and unquestioned. In that quiet office, I realized love doesn’t knock for entry. It leaves a key that fits only your hand.
