Rain poured down as I stood on the porch in my black dress, my father’s old watch cold against my wrist. Behind me, guests whispered under umbrellas. In front of me, Vanessa Cross held the door open, her expression calm and controlled.
“This house was never yours, Emma.”
Her son, Blake, leaned casually against the wall, already wearing my father’s coat. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he said. “Things change.”
I looked at him. “He wasn’t your father.”
For a split second, Vanessa’s smile faltered. Then she shoved a box into my arms. Inside were a few clothes, my college letter, and an old photo of my dad lifting me onto his shoulders.
“You have ten minutes,” she said. “After that, I call security.”
“This is my home.”
She stepped closer, her voice low. “No. It never was.”
Something inside me broke—but I didn’t show it.
My father’s voice echoed in my mind: Never argue when you’re angry. You’ll miss what matters.
