My name is Rufus. I’m 55, born and raised in Indiana, and I’ve spent most of my life in freight logistics — steady work for a steady man. I don’t say much, but when it comes to my daughter Emily, words don’t come close to describing what she means to me.
Emily is 25 now — smart, kind, and fiercely independent. She’s also seven months pregnant with her first child — my first grandchild. Her mother, Sarah, my first wife, passed away from cancer when Emily was just fifteen. Losing Sarah broke something inside us both. The house went quiet, and the silence was heavier than grief itself. But Emily and I survived it — together.
Years later, I met Linda — full of charm and energy. She had a teenage daughter, Jesse, and for a while, it felt like a new beginning. Two families trying to heal. But from the start, something wasn’t right. Linda was polite to Emily, but never warm. Every kindness came with an edge — small jabs, quiet criticisms, cold smiles. At dinner, she’d say “your daughter” instead of “our daughter.” And Jesse learned from her example.
Emily, being who she is, stayed quiet. She didn’t want to cause conflict or burden me. I told myself things would get better — that time would fix it. But I was wrong.
When Emily told me she was visiting, I wanted everything perfect. I prepared the guest room with a new bed and even set up a crib for her baby. She was about to become a mother, and I wanted her to feel safe in her childhood home again.
Continue reading on next page…