and so did our home, our joy, and our peace.Three years later, my father called. “I’ll be there tomorrow.
One chance.” He arrived, polished and distant, judging our modest home—until something shifted. “You’re not struggling,”he whispered. “What have you done?” “We’ve built a good life,” I said.
When he asked us to leave with him, I stood firm. “They have everything they need—because we worked for it.” He left in silence,
but returned hours later, tearful and broken. “I was wrong. You’ve built something beautiful.” I forgave him.
As our children ran in, one asked, “Grandpa?” He knelt down, tears in his eyes. “Yes,” he smiled. “Grandpa’s here now.”
