My dad got rid of me and my sisters like we didn’t matter, just because we were girls. He wanted a son, and when he didn’t get one, he sent us to live with our grandma. Years later, I made him regret it—with the help of lawyers and a court.
I’m 19 now, but I still remember the first time I realized my dad didn’t love me. That moment stuck with me and later pushed me to make him finally face the truth—who we really are.
I was about five or six, sitting on the couch with a popsicle melting in my hand. I looked at the family photos and noticed how empty his eyes were in the ones from the hospital when I was born. It was like I was a mistake he couldn’t return.
I’m the oldest—Hannah. Then came Rachel, Lily, and Ava. Four girls. And to Dad, that was a disappointment.
He wanted a son and didn’t even try to hide it. Mom told us he said right after I was born, “Don’t get too attached. We’ll try again.” He never said those things to us, but he didn’t need to. We could feel it in how he treated us—no hugs, no “I’m proud of you,” just silence and cold looks.
Each time another girl was born, he grew more and more bitter. By the time Ava came along, the tension in the house was unbearable.
Eventually, he decided to just get rid of us. One by one, he sent us to Grandma Louise’s house. I went first, just before my first birthday. Then the others followed. He waited just long enough to make it seem normal, then packed our things and dropped us off like old clothes nobody wanted.
Grandma never tried to stop Dad from sending us away—not because she didn’t care, but because she was scared of making things worse. She once told me, holding Ava’s old blanket, “I didn’t want to make him cut off all contact. I hoped he’d change one day.”
Mom didn’t stop him either. Now that I think about it, I don’t think she had the strength to. She got married young, quit college to be a housewife, and just did whatever Dad told her.
I think she was tired. Not mad at us because we were girls, but maybe because we kept being born when she wasn’t ready to be a mom. She didn’t seem to hate us—but she didn’t seem to want us either.
We grew up in Grandma Louise’s small, peaceful home. She took care of us when we were sick, told us bedtime stories, and never raised her voice. The only baby pictures we had were the ones she took.
Every birthday, she’d bake four small cakes—one for each of us.
We didn’t hear much from Mom or Dad. Sometimes we’d get birthday cards that just said “Love, Dad and Mom,” with nothing else written. I used to keep those cards under my pillow and pretend the words got accidentally erased.
Then, one night when I was nine, Grandma got a phone call while cooking. I saw her shoulders tense. She gave me hot cocoa and told me to take my sisters to the living room—but I didn’t listen.
I quietly left the kitchen and pressed my ear to the wall to listen.
“It’s a boy!” Mom said, her voice excited through the speakerphone. “We named him Benjamin.”
Dad laughed—really laughed—for the first time I could remember.
A week later, they showed up at Grandma’s house—but not to see us. They just came to show off baby Benjamin.
He was their special boy, treated like a prince. He wore fancy clothes and even had a silver rattle with his name on it. I’ll never forget how happy Dad looked holding him. That was the loving dad we had never seen.
After that visit, they disappeared again. We didn’t hear anything—no updates, no birthday invites. It felt like we didn’t exist anymore.
I thought that was it—we were forgotten for good.
But then, everything suddenly changed.
When I was 17, a lawyer came to Grandma’s house. He started asking questions about her ex-husband, Henry—our grandfather. We didn’t know him. He had left Grandma long ago, before I was born. All we knew was that he couldn’t handle having a family and walked away.
Grandma always said Grandpa Henry wasn’t a bad man, just someone who got lost in life.
Turns out, over the years, he had built a successful life. He owned a construction company, land, stocks—he was living the American dream. But now, he was dying.
A lawyer came by to gather family information for his will. “His estate will be divided among his direct grandchildren,” the lawyer explained. “Unless anyone objects.”
Without thinking twice, Grandma gave him our names. And that’s how it all began.
She didn’t know Dad had been spying on her mailbox—or that he’d find the lawyer’s return address, look it up, and see the word “inheritance” next to Henry’s name (Mom’s father). But he did.
Dad had overheard her talking about a lawyer and guessed it might involve money. His greed took over, and he started snooping for more.
A few weeks later, Dad and Mom showed up at Grandma’s house without warning. They brought fake smiles—and a U-Haul truck.
“We thought it was time to reconnect,” Dad said.
“It’s been too long,” Mom added, avoiding eye contact.
I walked outside, my hands shaking.
“Why now?” I asked.
Dad didn’t flinch. “We want you home, where you belong.”
That same night, they packed us up and took us back.
Grandma didn’t stop them—not because she agreed, but because she legally couldn’t. She never filed for guardianship. She always hoped Mom and Dad would return for us out of love.
They did come back—but not because they loved us. Grandma didn’t know that.
We moved into their house, but it never felt like ours. My old room was now filled with Benjamin’s Lego sets. The four of us were spread out on couches and sleeping bags.
Benjamin was seven and already spoiled. He looked at us like we didn’t belong.
“Why are the girl-servants here?” he once whispered to Mom—but loud enough for us to hear.
Rachel cried that night, and Ava slept with a flashlight on.
We were “reunited” with our parents, but it was clear we were only brought back for one reason.
We were treated like maids—doing all the chores: dishes, laundry, babysitting. Mom barely looked at us, and Dad just shouted orders. Benjamin copied them both, calling us “useless girls” like it was a joke in the family.
I lasted three weeks. Three weeks of cold meals, chore charts, and Benjamin acting like a little king. Three weeks of Mom acting like we were a burden. Three weeks of Dad ignoring us unless he wanted something cleaned.
One morning, I had enough. I packed a small bag, kissed my sisters goodbye, and left before the sun came up.
I walked six miles to the only person who might actually care—Grandpa Henry. He lived on the edge of town in a white house with ivy on the fences. I got his address from one of the letters Dad had stolen from Grandma.
When I knocked, Grandpa opened the door in his robe and slippers. He looked old and tired—but not angry.
“You must be Hannah,” he said, recognizing me right away. “Come in.”
Even though he and Grandma weren’t together anymore, she still sent him pictures of us over the years. She told him we were still his grandkids, no matter what.
I told him everything. I didn’t cry until I got to the part where Ava called herself “the spare girl.”
He didn’t say much at first. He just stared down at his hands.
Then he spoke quietly: “I left your grandma because I thought she’d be better without me. I was scared. I thought I was broken. But I was wrong. And I won’t let him break you girls too.”
The next day, he called Grandma.
“I’m done hiding,” he said. “Let’s fix this.”
Grandma had tears in her eyes when she saw him—she hadn’t spoken to him in over 20 years.
“If you really want to help,” she said, “then help me fight.”
Henry agreed. “I’ll talk to my family lawyer.”
That lawyer turned out to be his niece, Erica—a tough attorney who had her own reasons to help. Dad had bullied her back in high school, and she hadn’t forgotten.
They filed for guardianship right away, saying we had been emotionally neglected and abandoned. We brought everything—photos, school records, and personal stories. Erica even found an old text from Dad calling us “financial deadweight.”
The court case took months. Dad and Mom tried to say we were just “confused” and that Grandpa Henry had kidnapped me. But the judge didn’t believe them—and neither did the child advocate.
In the end, Grandma was given full, official custody of us. It couldn’t be changed.
And the will?
Grandpa Henry rewrote it himself. Everything went to us girls.
Mom, Dad, and Benjamin got nothing.
“You earned it,” he told us. “All of it.”
When Dad found out, he lost control. He called Grandma, yelling, and sent nasty messages. Then… nothing. Total silence.
Mom never called again. Honestly, I think she was a little relieved—like she didn’t really want to be a mom anyway.
Benjamin stayed in that big house, surrounded by toys, but with no one to play with. The little king with no kingdom.
We were finally back at Grandma’s, our real home, where we felt safe and loved.
And Grandpa Henry?
He spent his last two years making up for everything he’d missed.
He taught Lily how to fish, helped Rachel build a birdhouse, read history books with Ava, and even bought me my first camera.
When he passed away, we were all by his side.
Before he let go, he squeezed my hand and whispered:
“I should’ve come back sooner. But I’m glad I did something right in the end.”
And honestly?
So am I.