“Your future. And you know the doctor said I should not worry.”

 

To please Mom, I decided to go to school. At least I knew my father was surely going to be back because he assured me.

 

I went to school and was punished by the senior discipline master for my long absence. I was angry because my mother asked my dad to call the school and tell them the reason I was not at school, and he assured her he was going to call immediately, but he never did.

 

I started wondering if he really loved us, because I never knew what was going on. So I was worried, and after school I rushed home to mama, and when I got home my father’s car was not parked in the courtyard—signs he was not there. I rushed to my mom’s room and found her lying still with her hand struggling to grab the inhaler. She had shifted behind the bed during her sleep while the inhaler was on the stool beside her large bed. My mom never got up again, and my father only returned home the next day when my mom’s relatives had come and taken her body to the mortuary. I was furious with dad, but he was less remorseful.

 

While I was still mourning and in deep hurt, my mom’s body still at the morgue, I eavesdropped on my dad speaking to someone on the phone.

 

“I pleaded with you when you met me at the airport that my wife was sick, and I promised to be home in the morning; but you insisted that I had to spend the night with you first. You are my sweetheart, but she is still my wife. Now that she is no more, are you happy now?”

 

“I didn’t wish her bad, but it’s not our fault that we love each other. You didn’t do anything to her. She is asthmatic, and if God decided it was time for her to go, it’s His will. We can then feel free and be together soon.”

 

My father was talking with another woman like that, knowing I was in the house, that I could hear him. While my mom was still in the morgue.

 

During my mom’s funeral, I saw my dad with that woman at the funeral. They were like hands in gloves to each other. I was so furious and hurt, but I decided not to create a scene.

 

After her burial, a week later, the same lady visited our house and spent three days sleeping in Daddy’s room. I knew she was beautiful and seemed to pretend she loved dad. Maybe because of his wealth, but I was not sure she was genuine.

 

I detested her so much and made my intentions clear to her through my actions. And when my father introduced her as my future mom, I told him:

 

“I can never accept her to be my stepmom.”

 

A few days later, she was already living in the house. I heard her chatting on the phone and she said,

 

“If she doesn’t accept me as her stepmom, I will make sure her father—my sweetheart—focuses on me and lets me handle everything in the house. You know he always listens to me. I will convince him to sell her away and buy a puppy-dog instead. I prefer a puppy to her. You know dogs are loyal, but she might betray me.”

“So she go tell my papa make e sell me, send me go where?”

I muttered to myself in pidgin, my heart pounding so loudly I was afraid the walls would hear it and betray me. I stood frozen behind the half-open door of the guest room, my palms sweating, my stomach twisting as if someone had reached inside and wrung it like a wet cloth. At first I thought she was joking. People said cruel things when they were angry. But her voice on the phone was calm, deliberate, almost playful. This was not a joke. This was a plan.

That night, I did not sleep. I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks, listening to the muffled laughter from my father’s room. Each laugh felt like a small stone thrown at my chest. I kept thinking of my mother, of how she used to stroke my hair when I couldn’t sleep, how she used to say, “No matter what happens, you belong. Never forget that.” I clung to that memory like a life raft, but the waves were rising.

The next morning, my father called me into his study. It was a large room with dark wooden shelves filled with books he never read and trophies he never talked about. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, lighting up dust particles dancing in the air. He sat behind his desk, fingers interlocked, his face unreadable. The woman sat beside him, legs crossed, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“We need to talk,” my father said.

I remained standing. I did not trust myself to sit. My legs felt weak, but my spine stiffened. “About what?” I asked, though I already knew.

He cleared his throat. “You’ve been… difficult lately. Disrespectful. You don’t accept the changes in this house.”

“My mother died two weeks ago,” I said quietly. “What changes did you expect me to accept?”

The woman sighed dramatically. “Sweetheart,” she said, her voice syrupy, “we understand you’re hurting. But this attitude isn’t healthy. For you or for your father.”

I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw nothing sweet there. Only calculation.

My father continued, “I’ve been thinking. With my work, I travel a lot. This house is not the best environment for you right now. You need structure. Discipline.”

“And love,” I said before I could stop myself. “I need love.”

His eyes flickered for just a second, then hardened again. “You’ll have everything you need.”

That was when he told me. He spoke as if he were discussing a business deal. He said he had found a family in another state. A couple with no children. They were willing to take me in. In exchange, he would support them financially. It would be… better for everyone.

“I am not a package,” I whispered.

He avoided my eyes. “It’s settled.”

The woman smiled. “And we’re getting a puppy,” she added lightly, as if that balanced the scales.

I did not cry. Not then. Something inside me went very quiet, very cold. I walked out of the study, went to my room, and closed the door gently behind me. Only then did I slide down against it and let the sobs tear through me like a storm.

Two days later, I was gone.

They sent me away with a small suitcase and a backpack. No hug. No goodbye worth remembering. My father handed me an envelope with money in it, as if that could replace his presence. The woman did not even come to the door. I saw the puppy through the window, tiny and golden, sleeping on a cushion that used to belong to my mother.

The car ride felt endless. State lines blurred past the window as if my old life was being erased mile by mile. I arrived at a modest house in a quiet neighborhood. The couple who opened the door smiled nervously. They were not bad people. Just… distant. They had rules, schedules, expectations. They fed me, clothed me, sent me to school. But they did not know me. They did not ask about my mother. They did not notice when I cried myself to sleep.

School was worse. I was the new girl with expensive shoes and sad eyes. Some kids were curious. Others were cruel. I learned to keep my head down, to become invisible. Dancing, once my escape, became impossible. There was no ballet club here, no mirrors, no music that felt like home.

Months passed. Then years.

I grew up faster than I should have. I learned how to survive on my own emotions, how to build walls that no one could climb. On my eighteenth birthday, the couple handed me my documents and wished me luck. No cake. No hugs. Just a quiet understanding that their responsibility was over.

I left with nothing but my backpack and a determination that burned hotter than my grief.

Life did not become easy. I worked two jobs while attending community college. I cleaned offices at night and waited tables during the day. Some nights I cried from exhaustion. Other nights I dreamed of my mother, of her smile, of her belief in me. Whenever I felt like giving up, I heard her voice in my head: You belong.

I studied business. Not because I loved it, but because I wanted power. I wanted to understand the world that had crushed me. After college, I started small. An online service. Then another. I failed more times than I succeeded, but each failure taught me something. I was patient. I was stubborn. I refused to disappear.

By the time I was thirty, I owned my own company. By thirty-five, it was thriving. People called me self-made. They called me resilient. They did not know the cost.

One evening, while scrolling through old emails, I saw a familiar name in my inbox. My father.

He was sick. Cancer. Advanced. He wrote awkwardly, as if unsure of the language of apology. He said he wanted to see me. He said he was proud of me. He said he was sorry.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Part of me wanted to delete the message and move on. Another part, the small girl who had waited by the window for her father to come home, wanted answers. Closure. Or maybe just the truth.

I went.

The mansion was gone. They lived now in a smaller house. The woman was still there, older, sharper, her beauty worn thin. The puppy was gone too. I did not ask where.

My father looked smaller than I remembered. Fragile. When he saw me, his eyes filled with tears.

“I failed you,” he said.

I did not rush to comfort him. I sat across from him and let the silence speak.

He told me everything then. About his fear of being alone. About his selfishness. About how he had thought money could fix what presence could not. He admitted that selling me away was the worst decision of his life.

“I thought you’d be better off,” he whispered.

“I survived,” I said. “That’s not the same thing.”

When he died a few months later, he left me something unexpected. Not money. Not property. But a letter.

In it, he asked me to forgive him, not for his peace, but for mine. He wrote that love, when delayed, rots into regret. He begged me not to repeat his mistakes.

I attended his funeral quietly. I did not cry. My mourning had happened long ago.

Years later, I adopted a dog from a shelter. Not a puppy, but an old one. Scarred. Overlooked. Loyal in a quiet way. When I brought him home, I knelt and looked into his tired eyes.

“You’re safe now,” I told him.

Sometimes, late at night, I think about the girl I was. The one who was sold and replaced. And I realize something important.

My father bought a dog because he thought loyalty could be owned.

But I learned that love cannot be bought, sold, or forced.

It must be chosen.

And I chose to live.