When Grandma died, she left me her house and a chilling note: “Burn everything in the attic.” I didn’t listen. I went up there and found old
letters and photos — including one of me holding hands with a man I didn’t recognize. On the back: “My son and my granddaughter. Thomas and Marie.”

Turns out, the man was my father — the one Grandma never spoke of. I found his address and went to see him.

He was kind, warm, and even took me out for pizza. But when he insisted on visiting my house that same night, something felt off.

Later that night, I caught him rifling through Grandma’s attic chest. The sweetness vanished. He claimed he

owned half the house, waved an old deed, and declared, “Daddy’s home.” I was stunned — this wasn’t love. This was control.

But I found his other daughter — Olivia — living under the same manipulation. Together, we hired a lawyer,

proved the deed was void, and got him out for good. In the end, I didn’t gain a father, but I gained a sister. And finally, I wasn’t alone anymore.