“You’re not family anymore,” was all my stepdad, Carl, said before slamming the door in my face. At nineteen, I stood on the porch with a single bag of belongings, my heart shattered. Carl made it clear—I no longer mattered. Years later, after building my life from nothing, his name suddenly flashed on my phone. His voice trembled. “I didn’t think you’d pick up, but…”
Standing there, I kicked my worn sneakers into the cracked pavement. Carl, my stepdad, stood across from me with his arms crossed, looking stern as ever. “Can’t believe you’re doing this, Carl,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. He didn’t flinch. "She's my daughter. You understand," he replied, as if that justified everything. Silence hung between us, heavy and unyielding. The world felt colder seeing his face so indifferent.