Then he met Patricia. At a charity gala. She was younger. Beautiful. Charming.
They married quickly. Six months courtship. Small wedding. She moved in with Tyler, her teenage son.
Everything changed. Patricia redecorated. Changed the staff. Made the house hers.
Tyler was entitled. Lazy. Spent Dad’s money freely. Treated me like I was beneath him.
But Dad seemed happy. Or at least… content. So I stayed quiet. Tried to adjust.
Went to college. Studied business. Worked part-time. Built my own life.
Visited home on holidays. Endured Patricia’s passive aggression. Tyler’s contempt. Dad’s distraction.
Then Dad got sick. Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Moved fast.
Patricia was… strange about it. Overly concerned. Constantly asking about his will. His accounts. His assets.
“Just making sure everything’s in order, darling. For your protection.”
Dad was too sick to notice. Or maybe he noticed and said nothing.
In his final weeks, I visited daily. Sat with him. Read to him. Held his hand.
Patricia barely came. “Too upsetting to see him like this.”
Tyler never came. “Not my real dad. Why would I?”
But they were very interested in the will. In what he’d leave them. In securing their future.
