My dad, on the other hand, loved having me there. He would sit by my bed and massage my swollen feet. He told stories about when I was a baby and joked with me. When he was near, I felt safe. For a short time, I allowed myself to believe that everything would be okay.
Then my dad got sick.
It happened very suddenly. One day, my dad was sitting beside me reading. The next day, he was gone. Just like that. No goodbye. No last words. Just silence. I lost my father at the time I needed him most.
Two days after the funeral, Veronica showed who she really was. I was still wearing my pajamas, trying to eat a piece of toast, when she walked into the kitchen. She was dressed up like she was going to a wedding.
She didn’t ask how I was. She didn’t say she was sorry.
Instead, she said, “You should start packing,” as calmly as if she were talking about the weather.
I was shocked. “What?” I asked.
“You have 36 hours,” she said casually, pouring herself a glass of wine in the middle of the morning. “This house is mine now. I don’t want you here. I don’t want your… babies here.”
My heart sank. “Veronica, I’m going to give birth in two weeks. What am I supposed to do?”
“Motel. Shelter. Not my problem,” she replied. “You’re not staying in my house. You’re not raising those babies here.”
I could hardly stand. “Dad would never have allowed this!”
She gave me a cruel smile. “Well, your dad isn’t here anymore, is he?”
Then she took out her phone and called someone named Mike.
“Hey, Mike,” she said. “Come quickly. We have a problem.”
Who was Mike?
I found out quickly. Mike came into the house acting like it was his. He was Veronica’s boyfriend. Yes, she had been seeing him while she was still married to my dad.
I was scared and ran into the guest room. From inside, I heard Veronica telling Mike to break the door. She was shouting that I didn’t belong there and that I was an intruder — in my own father’s house.
When I was alone, I called the police. I told them my stepmother was trying to throw me out onto the street. I explained that I was 38 weeks pregnant and terrified.
The police came fast and stopped Mike from hurting me. But the truth was painful. I couldn’t stay there. I had no job, no savings, and nowhere to go.
I packed as quickly as I could. I didn’t care much about my own things. I took some of my dad’s most important belongings because I knew Veronica would probably throw them away. I grabbed a suitcase, a few clothes, my phone, and left my dad’s house.
When I arrived at a shelter, I was so exhausted I almost fainted. I could barely carry my things. Then my suitcase suddenly opened, and everything spilled onto the ground. Crying, I started picking up my stuff.
That’s when I saw the envelope my dad had given me a month earlier. We were sitting on the porch drinking tea when he gave it to me. I remembered what he told me — to open it only after he was gone.
I had hidden the envelope in my things because I was afraid Veronica would see it and get angry about whatever my dad had written. But when I felt completely hopeless, I finally opened it — not knowing my life was about to change again.
Inside were official papers with my name on them.
It was the deed to the house. The house was mine.
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