Three years after disowning me, my father called. “I heard you have children,” he said. “I’m coming tomorrow. One chance to come back. Say no, and I’m gone forever.”
He arrived in a black luxury car, wearing a tailored suit that clashed with our gravel driveway and simple home.
Inside, he looked around in silence—at the hardwood floors Lucas built, toys scattered across the room, and photos of our little family. Then he muttered, “You’re not struggling…” His voice cracked. And he walked out the door.
But he didn’t leave. He sat in his car for hours, head in his hands. When he finally came back, he looked different—humbled, emotional. “I was wrong,” he whispered through tears. “I should’ve seen what you were building.”
We cried, talked, and began healing. Then the triplets ran in. One looked up at him and said, “Grandpa?”
He dropped to his knees, voice trembling, “Yes. Grandpa’s here now.”