My parents divorced when I was four. For a while, my dad stayed involved, but after he married Jane—who had three children—things slowly changed. Time with him became less frequent, and when we did talk, it often felt like I had to justify my feelings. He’d say things like, “You should be happy we’re doing family stuff,” or “Don’t be dramatic,” whenever I expressed disappointment.
One of the most memorable moments came when he promised to take me to a concert—something we’d planned for weeks. But days before, he told me he couldn’t go because he’d spent the money repainting his stepchild’s room. That moment stayed with me. It wasn’t just about the concert—it was about not being chosen.
Years later, there was a school trip I desperately wanted to attend. He offered to help with the cost but pulled out at the last minute. “The twins only turn ten once,” he said. My mom stepped in, borrowing money so I wouldn’t miss out. That was the moment I stopped asking my dad for help. It wasn’t anger. It was quiet acceptance.
Now, as a graduating senior—valedictorian, full scholarship—I felt like I’d finally reached the finish line. My dad gave me a card with some money to celebrate. I was surprised and touched. But two days later, he asked for it back. “Your stepbrother is having a hard time right now,” he said.
I returned the envelope without complaint.
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