I should've stopped caring, but it's hard to let go of someone who's supposed to be your dad. When I heard he died, I didn't know how to feel. Was I sad? Angry? Relieved? Honestly, it was probably all of those at once.

When the funeral came, I felt like I had to go despite knowing it would be better not to. I don't know why. Maybe I wanted closure, or maybe I just wanted to see who would be there.

The chapel was quiet except for the organ playing softly, and the smell of lilies hit me like a wall, too sweet and overwhelming. I fidgeted on the hard wooden bench, staring down at the little program they gave me at the door.

Robert Sr.

It was strange to see his name written like that as if he was just another man, not the ghost who had haunted me most of my life.

Nobody cried. Nobody looked that upset, actually. They just sat there, staring blankly, like they were waiting for the whole thing to be over. Meanwhile, my half-siblings, Robert Jr. and Barbara, whom I only met over the phone when they answered instead of my dad, weren't even there.

That was weird. You'd think the kids he actually raised would show up, right?

Just as I was deciding if I should leave too, a hand, bony but strong, gripped my arm. I flinched and turned to see my grandmother, Estelle. I had only seen her a couple of times over the years.

She'd give me updates about my father and his new family, and I only listened because she was the only one from that side who had shown me any attention.

Her sharp eyes locked onto mine, and her face was all business. She leaned in close, so close I could smell her perfume, and started speaking.

"Look around, child," she whispered. "Didn't you notice? You shouldn't be here. You need to run to his house. Now."

I blinked at her. "What? Grandma, what are you talking about?"

She didn't answer. She just pressed something cold into my hand. I looked down. A key. My confusion must've been written all over my face because she gripped my arm tighter.

"Trust me," she continued, her voice steady and low. "Go. Quickly."

Then she let go and straightened up like nothing had happened. I stared after her, stunned, while she disappeared back into the crowd.

For a second, I thought about just staying there. Maybe she was messing with me. Maybe she was losing it. But there was something in the way she looked at me that I couldn't ignore.

I stood up.

Quietly, I slipped out of the chapel, holding the key tight in my hand. Outside, the sunlight felt too bright after being in that dark, stuffy room. I took one breath, got in my car, and drove to his house.

The two-story property was even more impressive than I remembered it. Fresh paint gleamed in the sunlight, and the yard was meticulously landscaped. It looked like my father had really loved this house. He certainly put more care into it than he did into raising me.

I parked in the newly paved driveway, staring at the front door. I shouldn't be here. This had been my house before he left us. We stayed at first, but his lawyer quickly kicked us out. It felt crazy being here, but I had to find out what Grandma meant.

I walked up to the door, and the lock clicked softly. The hinges echoed as I pushed the door open. Inside, it was quiet. The air smelled fresh and clean, with a hint of something pleasant, like lemon or lavender.

I moved through the living room. The old furniture I remembered had been replaced with newer, more stylish pieces, but there was a strange vibe that made the house feel heavier somehow, like a held breath.

That's when I heard the voices.

They were faint, coming from somewhere down the hall. I froze, straining to listen. My father's study. I remembered it from when I was little. I was never allowed in there.

I tiptoed closer. Outside the door, I could hear the voices more clearly.

"This has to be it," a man said.

I didn't know this voice well, but it had to be Robert Jr.

"The deed, the account numbers," he continued, sounding frantic. "We need to find them before she does."

"You're right. She can't find them. Where could he have hidden them?" a female voice snapped back. It had to be Barbara.

My breath caught. Wait. Were they talking about me?

I pushed the door open just a crack. Inside, I saw Robert standing by my father's desk, holding a bunch of papers. Barbara was on the floor, rifling through a pile of cash and documents from an open wall safe.

What were they doing?

"Well," a quiet voice said behind me, making me jump. "Your father's suspicions were right."

I spun around and came face to face with a man in a gray suit. He looked calm, almost bored.

"Who are you?" I whispered, swallowing thickly.

"Mr. Davis," he said, holding up a brown folder. "The family notary."

Before I could say anything to this man, the door was pulled open. I almost tripped over the threshold. Barbara was there, and her face contorted in anger when she saw us.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she snapped.

Robert turned to the doorway, his face going pale. "Emily? You shouldn't be here!"

I opened my mouth to say something, but Mr. Davis beat me to it.

"Actually, she has every right to be here," he said calmly.

Barbara glared at him. "What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"Ask your grandmother," Mr. Davis replied.

Just then, she appeared. Grandma Estelle walked past Mr. Davis and me. Ignoring a scowling Barbara, she strode into the study with her head held high.

Her eyes swept over the chaos created by my half-siblings, then finally met mine.

"Sweetheart," she said softly, "I wanted you to see this. To see them for who they are."

"I don't understand," I muttered, shaking my head.

"My son made many mistakes in his youth that he never acknowledged, but I believe his disease finally woke him up. He wanted to divide his estate between the three of you," Grandma Estelle continued and lifted her chin toward my half-siblings. "But I knew they'd try to cheat you out of your part."

Robert Jr. and Barbara erupted in disbelief, but I just shook my head. "Grandma, what they tried to do doesn't matter. I don't want my father's money. I didn't even know him."

"See?" Robert Jr. started, looking between us furiously. "She doesn't want it and doesn't deserve it anyway. She wasn't in his life, so his estate belongs to us."

Grandma Estelle fixed him with an icy stare. "It's what your father wanted — what he explicitly warned you about," she said to my half-siblings, her gaze shifting to Mr. Davis. "Please, read my son's exact words."

The notary raised the folder and began reading. "To my children: If you are hearing this, then I am dead. I want my estate to be divided fairly. But, as we discussed, if either of you try to claim more than your share, everything will go to Emily."

Barbara gasped, and Robert Jr. shouted, both immediately launching into a tirade about the unfairness of it all. Mr. Davis ignored them.

"Your actions today triggered this clause," he said simply. "Emily, his estate is now all yours. He also left you this letter."

He handed me a sealed envelope, and I opened it with shaky hands.

"Emily,

Your mother was always so strong, so capable. Even when we were young, she had a fire in her that intimidated me. I, on the other hand, was a child playing at being a grown-up. I had grown up with comforts and an easy life, and the responsibility of fatherhood, of providing for a family, terrified me. So, I ran. Like a coward.

It took facing my own mortality to realize just how stupid and irresponsible I had been. I had given up a good life, a loving family, all because I was afraid. And to make matters worse, I see the same weakness in the children I did raise. After their mother died, all they cared about was money and who got more attention. It sickened me.

Then, after all these years, I looked into you. I saw the woman you had become. How you worked from the age of 14, how you put yourself through school and earned a degree in computer science. About how you have a steady job and a close relationship with your mother. You built a life for yourself, a good life, despite my absence. And it made me realize how selfish I had been.

This house, this money... it's not about making amends. I know I can never do that. But I hope it shows you that I regret everything. I regret leaving. I regret missing your life. And most of all, I regret not being the father you deserved.

Have a great life, Emily. You've earned it."

My eyes blurred with tears. For so long, I'd been angry. I'd struggled with feelings of abandonment, with the pain of a missing father. Now, I was overwhelmed. He had looked into me. He was proud of the life I'd built.

I only wished he had reached out. I don't know if I would've forgiven him, but maybe, I would've tried to get to know him, too.

Things could've been different. Yet, as my tears fell, I realized I was also grateful. Not for the house, the money, or any of it, but for these words — they soothed something in my soul.

I vaguely heard Grandma Estelle ushering my half-siblings out. Their protests quickly faded as they left the house. I focused on Mr. Davis, who instructed me to call him to finalize the legal matters.

And then, I was alone in my father's house, the house that used to be mine and my only chance to get to know him now. Was it even possible to know a person after they were gone? I wondered, but I supposed I was about to find out.

Here's another story: When my husband started taking our children to visit their grandmother every week, I thought nothing of it. But when my daughter let something suspicious slip about their weekly outings, I found myself trailing them one day.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.