Then came a phone call.
I was in the nursery, lights dimmed, gently rocking Eva to sleep. Her warm little body pressed against me, soft breaths brushing my neck. One of those rare quiet moments where everything feels safe.
Her voice was sharp, a tone she used when she wanted something.
“Dear,” she said, “your dad doesn’t want you to know this, but…”
I held the phone tighter, patting Eva’s back slower.
“But what?” I asked.
“There’s something he’s hiding,” she said. “It’s about the house. He’s planning to sell it. Your childhood home. Without telling you.”
My stomach sank.
“Why wouldn’t he tell me?” I whispered.
She let out a dramatic sigh. “Exactly. I told him you’d be heartbroken. But he thinks you’re too busy playing mommy to care.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said.
“Don’t say I told you,” she cut in. “He’d be furious.”
We hung up. I stared at the baby monitor long after, mind racing—about the house, about timing. Why now, after weeks of silence?
I called my dad.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. Warm, tired, but comforting.
“Hi, Dad. Are you selling the house?”
There was silence. “What?”
“No. Why would you think that?”
I explained the call. He sighed. “We argued about renovations. I said I wanted to redo the roof, maybe fix the porch. She thinks it’s wasteful. Maybe she twisted that into ‘he’s selling it.’”
It wasn’t perfect, but it felt closer to the truth. I didn’t want to drag him into her mind games. He’d already lost one wife. He didn’t need more stress.
She stayed silent after that. No messages, no calls about Eva. Part of me hoped she felt guilty. The louder part suspected she was just plotting her next move.
I was right.
On Christmas, she appeared at my door without warning.
I opened it in fuzzy socks, holding Eva on my hip. She looked perfect—hair, makeup, coat—and held a giant red gift bag with an icy smile.
“I came to see my granddaughter,” she said.
I stepped aside. “Come in.”
She swept in, eyes scanning everything, then leaned toward Eva.
“Oh, she’s got your nose,” she cooed. “But my hair, I think.”
I bit my tongue.
Inside the bag were designer baby clothes—loud, showy generosity meant to make a statement.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
After some small talk, she revealed her real reason.
“I hope you’ll consider adding me to Eva’s middle name.”
I blinked. “Her name is Eva Grace.”
“I know. But there’s always time to change it. Legally.”
“Why would I?”
“Because I earned it,” she hissed. “I was there when your mother wasn’t. I drove you, packed lunches—”
“You also made me cry at least once a week,” I said calmly. “You helped, yes. But you didn’t replace her. You don’t get to overwrite her now.”
Her eyes flashed. “You’re ungrateful.”
“No. I’m done pretending.”
She stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to wake Eva.
Weeks later, my dad confirmed her behavior had crossed lines. Then, unexpectedly, my cousin Nelly brought alarming news: large withdrawals from my dad and stepmom’s joint account, funneled into an account only in her name. She was preparing—for divorce, or worse. Continue reading…
