“She’s NOT your daughter,” Marisa hissed. “She’s not your blood. You’ve poured your life into her — money, house, college fund. For what? So she can leave at 18 and forget you exist?”
Everything inside me went still. “Get out.”
Marisa laughed. “You’re choosing her over me. Again.” She reached into her purse, pulled out my ring box. “I knew you were going to propose. Fine. Keep your charity case. But I’m not leaving empty-handed.”
I grabbed the box back, opened the door, and told her to leave. Avery was standing at the bottom of the stairs, pale. She’d heard everything.
“Dad,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to…”
“I know, sweetheart. I know you didn’t do anything.”
She cried quietly. “I thought you’d believe her.”
“I’m sorry I even questioned you,” I said, holding her close. “But listen carefully. No job, no woman, no amount of money is worth losing you. Nothing.”
She sniffed. “So you’re not mad?”
“I’m furious,” I said. “Just not at you.”
The next day, I filed a police report. Told my supervisor the truth before Marisa could twist it. Two weeks later, she texted: “Can we talk?” I didn’t respond.
