When I told my dad I was pregnant by Justin, he didn’t yell—he just said, “If you go through with this, you’re no longer my daughter.” I chose Justin and later our triplets. My father vanished for three years until he suddenly called: “I’m coming tomorrow… if you say no, don’t expect me to call again.”

He arrived acting like nothing had happened—until he saw a picture of my mother. His breath caught: “Oh, no… What have you done?” Touching the photo, he whispered, “You look just like her… it’s like you… rebuilt her.” He told me how he had promised my farm-raised mother a simple life but instead dragged her into a world she hated. “She cried every day for a year.” Seeing my home made him realize what she’d truly wanted.

He offered to buy us a house and set up accounts, insisting, “You can’t keep living like this.” When I refused, saying we wanted his time, not money, he snapped: “You always were just like your mother. Impossible.” And he left again.

When Suri fell ill, I called him—not for money, but fear. He arrived in two hours, reading Goodnight Moon until she slept. After her diagnosis (“autoimmune, manageable”), he became present—weekly visits, groceries, stories, and real involvement.

One day he said, “You’re building something here… She’d be proud of you.” He and Justin built us a sunroom, he paid our closing fees as “A gift,” and slowly we became a family again. I never regretted refusing his money; it let him learn how to love us without trying to own us.