Love always, Dad.”
The paper shook in my hands.
“You were my daughter.”
The envelope also contained a draft of guardianship forms, signed by both Michael and my mother, complete with a notary stamp.
Then came Sammie’s letter—sharp, formal handwriting filling the page. She claimed Michael wasn’t stable, that “a man with no relation to the child cannot provide proper structure.”
It wasn’t about safety. It was about control.
And then the journal page. My mother’s words, torn from a notebook:
“If anything happens, don’t let them take her.”
I pressed the paper to my chest, eyes closed. The ache in my chest swallowed the cold floor beneath me.
He had carried this all alone. And he never let it touch me.
The next morning, I had a meeting at the attorney’s office. At nine, Sammie called.
“I know your father’s will is being read today. I thought maybe we could walk in together,” she said gently. “Family should sit together, don’t you think?”
“You never sat with us before,” I replied.
“Oh, Clover. That was a long time ago.”
She paused, just long enough to remind me she was still there.
“I just… I know things were tense back then,” she continued. “But your mother and I… we had a complicated bond. And Michael—well, I know you cared for him.”
“Cared?” I asked. “Past tense?”
