Growing up, I was treated like a burden by my mother, unlike my sisters, who were showered with love. I never understood why—until I overheard a brutal fight. “How can she be mine?” my father shouted. A DNA test confirmed I wasn’t his daughter. My mother had cheated.
When he left, her resentment grew. “This is your fault,” she hissed. I worked, paid rent, and bought my own groceries while my sisters lived freely. The mistreatment pushed me to seek out my biological father. My mother gave me a false lead, but when I finally found him, he recognized me instantly.
“You’re my daughter,” he said. Rick had always wanted me but was told I wanted nothing to do with him. He welcomed me, gave me love—and a house.
Later, my mother and sister broke into my home and tried to stay there. I stood up to them. “Leave now, or I’m calling the police.”
They fled. I changed the locks and cut ties for good. For the first time, I felt peace. I had finally built a life that was mine—and I wasn’t looking back.
