I dropped everything and rushed to catch the bus home. All that ran through my mind were fleeting questions: “Is this a mistake?”, “He’s too young…”, “Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?”. But as I arrived at the gate, all hope vanished. The coffin had been closed. I didn’t get to see him one last time. I didn’t get to say anything to him. I didn’t get to apologize.
My mother passed away early, and I lived with him from the age of ten. He wasn’t my biological father, but not for a day did I feel unloved. No harsh words, no coercion, no fighting; he quietly stood by every choice I made.
When I started university, he took on extra night shifts as a loader to have enough money to send me to the city. When I married far away, he took my mother’s place and saw me off to my husband’s house. But despite him always treating me as his own child, I never called him dad, always addressing him as uncle.
I never called my stepfather dad. (Illustrative image)
After taking care of my stepfather’s funeral, I cleaned up the house a bit and prepared to return to the city. The old house was empty, and my uncle (my stepfather’s older brother) offered to look after it.
Out of respect, I agreed and gave him the keys, telling him that I would visit whenever I could. I never imagined that this trust would cause me to lose the most familiar place in my life.
Six months later, I returned without prior notice. My heart felt suffocated as I stood in front of the old gate. The house was dusty, and the front yard was cluttered with belongings. The windows were closed, but the sound of a fan and the laughter of strangers could be heard from within.
I knocked on the door, and my stepfather’s younger brother opened it, surprised and annoyed to see me. Apparently, he had moved in without any warning. When I asked him when he had come to live there and why they hadn’t told me, he calmly replied:
– It’s a shared house; anyone can live here. Who should we have informed?
I was speechless. It didn’t end there; my stepfather’s older brother and his entire family came and filled the living room. They suggested dividing the house or selling it and splitting the money, as the house had been left to them by their father.
I explained that the house had been transferred to my stepfather by our grandfather many years ago, and he had lived there until his passing. But they brushed me off, arguing that, regardless of the circumstances, I was still an outsider with no blood relation to their family and, therefore, had no right to keep the house to myself.
– If there is no will, we should divide it ourselves. You are an outsider, but we are not heartless. Out of respect for our long-standing relationship, when we sell the house, we will give you a share.
I felt trapped and helpless.
The whole family demanded to sell my stepfather’s house. (Illustrative image)
When I didn’t know what to do, my son suddenly ran up to me with my stepfather’s old phone, which he had found in his room. He played a recording, my stepfather’s voice.
“I leave this house to Vy. Although she is not my biological child, I consider her my own. I just hope she has a place to call home, a place that holds so many happy memories of our family.”
No one said another word after that. The relatives left quietly. I stood there, crying like a child. For so many years, he had quietly thought of me, always putting me first, even as he faced his own mortality. Meanwhile, I had never had the courage to call him dad.
Now, the house is quiet again. I clean every corner, wipe down every window, and touch every old keepsake, tears streaming down my face. Sitting in his bedroom, my heart aches.
We often don’t realize how important someone is until we lose them. I know I will never have the chance to thank him or make up for my shortcomings. But at least I know I will never let that love be forgotten.
From today, I will call him dad in my heart. The dad I love most in this life.
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