After my dad’s funeral, my stepmother wanted to kick me out of my childhood home. But she had no idea my dad had hidden something that would change everything.
I’m 19, and until last winter, I thought the worst thing that had ever happened to me was losing my mom when I was five.
Then my dad, Eric, followed.
His funeral felt like a blur. I only remember standing beside the grave, staring at the wooden casket while someone from the church spoke.
All I could think was that my dad had been alive three weeks earlier. He’d stood in the kitchen making pancakes.
Then the heart attack happened.
And just like that, he was gone.
People slowly drifted away after the burial.
My aunt hugged me hard and whispered, “Call me if you need anything, sweetheart.”
Carla stood beside me the whole time but barely spoke.
She was my stepmother. Dad married her when I was 15.
Initially, she acted nice enough, but something about her always felt calculated.
