When Grandma died, she left me her house—and a single, ominous instruction: *"Burn everything in the attic."* But curiosity got the better of me.
Among the dusty boxes, I found a faded photograph: a little girl—*me*—holding hands with a stranger. Scrawled on the back were the words:
***"My son and my granddaughter. Thomas and Marie."***
My stomach dropped. The man was my father—the one Grandma had never spoken of.
I tracked him down. He seemed kind—laughing over pizza, reminiscing about things I didn’t remember. But when he insisted on coming home with me that night, unease prickled at my neck.
Then I caught him in the attic, digging through Grandma’s chest. His smile vanished as he waved an old deed in my face.
*"Daddy’s home,"* he sneered. *"And half this house is mine."*
But he wasn’t counting on Olivia—his other daughter, trapped under his control just like I had been. Together, we fought back. The deed was a fake. The lawyers made sure of that.
In the end, I didn’t gain a father. But I found something better—a sister. And for the first time, I wasn’t alone anymore.
(*Sometimes, the family you choose is the only one that matters.*)
