I was 14 when my dad died. My stepmom inherited his house and gave me two options: “Pay me $400 in rent, or I send you to boarding school.”
I had no money.
She kicked me out.
Two years later, a nurse found me at my dorm and said, “A dying woman’s last wish was to give you this.” It was a flash drive.
I plugged it in — my blood ran cold.
Inside were videos of my father, sitting at his desk, looking straight into the camera. The dates were recent. Recorded after I’d been told he was too sick to talk, too weak to see me.
In the first clip, he smiled softly.
“If you’re watching this, it means I ran out of time.”
He explained everything.
He had known my stepmom would push me away. He’d tried to set up a trust, but paperwork had stalled. So he did the next best thing. He recorded proof — bank statements, property records, copies of emails.
Money he left for me. Money someone else had taken.
My hands shook as file after file opened.
But the last video wasn’t about revenge or courts.
It was about love.
“I hope you’re somewhere safe,” he said, voice breaking. “I hope you know losing a house never meant losing me.”
I cried harder at that than anything.
Because for the first time since he died, I felt like he’d finally found a way back to me.
