My father never wanted daughters—he made that painfully obvious from the very start. I was five when I first realized his love didn’t extend to me or my three younger sisters. He didn’t shout or scowl; he simply looked at us as if we were mistakes he couldn’t return. My name is Hannah, the eldest of four—then came Rachel, Lily, and Ava. To him, each of us was just another disappointment. What he longed for was a son, and in his eyes, we would never be enough.
Instead of raising us, Dad slowly began leaving us with our grandmother, one after the other, offering flimsy excuses and silence. I was the first to go, then Rachel, then Lily, and finally Ava. He never said the words, but his actions spoke loudly: we didn’t matter.
Grandma Louise, warm and gentle, welcomed us without question. She baked cookies when we were sick and made sure every birthday came with a homemade cake. She didn’t push for custody—afraid that if she fought, Dad might sever ties completely.
Our mother never stopped him. Too young when she married and worn down by life, she obeyed rather than resisted. I don’t believe she hated us; I think she simply didn’t want us enough.
So we grew up in Grandma’s care, mostly forgotten. Each birthday brought a card from Mom and Dad—signed with a hollow “Love,” but never followed by a call or a visit. That changed only when they had a son.
I was nine when I overheard the phone call—Mom’s voice bubbling with joy as she announced the birth of Benjamin. A week later, they arrived without warning, not to see us, but to parade their new baby. Dressed in designer clothes and clutching a silver rattle, he was everything they’d been waiting for. We, the daughters they had cast aside, stood in the background, watching like strangers.
Years passed, and they vanished again—this time, we thought, for good.
Then, when I was seventeen, a lawyer appeared at Grandma’s door. He was seeking the descendants of her ex-husband, Henry—our grandfather. We had never met him. He had left decades earlier but had since built a business, amassed wealth, and was now nearing the end of his life. His estate was to be divided among his grandchildren. Without hesitation, Grandma gave him our names.
What she didn’t know was that Dad had been snooping through her mail. The word “inheritance” was all he needed to hear. Weeks later, he and Mom appeared with fake smiles and a moving truck. “We want to reconnect,” they claimed. That same night, we were packed up and taken away.
At their house, we were intruders. My old bedroom had been turned into Benjamin’s playroom. We slept on couches and floors, treated as little more than live-in help. Benjamin, now seven, called us “girl-servants.” Mom and Dad barely acknowledged us unless they wanted something done. We were nothing but pawns in Dad’s plan to claim our share of the inheritance.
I lasted three weeks—three weeks of insults, endless chores, and the constant reminder that we were unwanted. One morning, before anyone woke up, I packed a bag, kissed my sisters goodbye, and walked six miles to Henry’s house. I had memorized his address from a letter Dad had hidden.
Henry answered the door, frail but alert, in a robe and slippers. He knew exactly who I was. Without hesitation, he invited me in. I told him everything—how we’d been abandoned, and how Dad had only reappeared because of the money. I didn’t cry until I told him that Ava had started calling herself “the spare girl.”
Henry was silent for a long time before saying quietly, “I left because I thought your grandmother would be better off without me. I was wrong. I’m not going to let him do to you girls what I did.”
That same day, he called Grandma. They hadn’t spoken in over twenty years, but she didn’t hesitate. “If you’re ready to help,” she said, “help me fight.”
And he did.
His niece Erica, a tough-as-nails lawyer with an old grudge against Dad from high school, took our case. Together, we filed for guardianship, gathering proof of neglect, abandonment, and emotional abuse. Erica even found an old message from Dad calling us “financial deadweight.”
The legal battle dragged on for months. Dad and Mom tried everything—accusing Grandma of brainwashing us, even claiming I’d been kidnapped. But the judge and child advocate saw through the lies. In the end, custody was officially granted to Grandma.
As for the inheritance, Henry rewrote his will himself. Every last cent went to us girls—none to Dad, Mom, or Benjamin.
“You’ve earned it,” he told us. “All of it.”
When Dad found out, he erupted—angry calls, hateful messages—and then, nothing. Mom stopped calling. And Benjamin, their little prince, was left alone in his kingdom.
We returned to Grandma’s house—the only real home we’d ever had. Henry spent his last two years making up for lost time: fishing trips with Lily, birdhouse building with Rachel, reading afternoons with Ava, and gifting me my first camera. He was there, truly there, until the day he passed.
Just before his death, he took my hand and whispered, “I should have come back sooner. But I’m glad I finally did something right.”
So am I.