I will never forget the day I pulled into our driveway and saw my whole life dumped on the front porch like trash. My clothes. My shoes. My books. My memories—all stuffed into black garbage bags like I was nothing. My heart dropped. I parked and ran to the porch in disbelief. This had to be a mistake. A nightmare. Something. But it got worse when I opened the door. There she was—Sophia—my husband’s so-called sister, standing in the hallway like she owned the place, holding a glass of wine,

Pauline was a hardworking single mother, doing everything she could to make life better for her 8-year-old daughter, Eve. She worked as a janitor in a local office building, cleaning floors, wiping windows, and making sure everything was spotless. Though it was exhausting work, she was proud to provide for her little girl, especially since Eve’s father had passed away years ago from cancer. Since then, it had been just the two of them, and Pauline was doing her best to be both mother and father to Eve. As Eve’s

Dad thought I didn’t notice. But I did. Oh, I really did. It was in the way he stared at old pictures of Mom, his eyes going soft like he was in another world. It was in the way he’d stop and smile quietly when he saw older couples holding hands in the park. And most of all, it was the way he’d sit at the kitchen table late at night, just staring into his coffee, like he was waiting for it to give him answers. My dad was lonely.