The night my father forced my mother and me out of our home to move in with his mistress remains etched in my memory. We were left with nothing but a few bags and broken hearts. My mother worked double shifts at a diner while we rebuilt our lives in a tiny apartment. Her strength became my inspiration, and I dedicated myself to creating a better future for us both. When she passed away after a brave battle with cancer, she left me a small inheritance that represented every sacrifice she had ever made.
Two decades after abandoning us, my father appeared at my doorstep. He had heard about the inheritance and came to claim what he believed was rightfully his. He argued that as her former husband, he was entitled to a share of what she had left behind. I stood firm, reminding him that he had forfeited any rights to our family when he chose to leave us destitute. The man who had shown us no mercy now expected kindness in his time of need. Protecting my mother’s legacy was my final act of love for her, a testament to the life we built without him and the values she instilled in me.
