I went to my estranged father’s funeral, hoping for closure, but my grandmother’s urgent warning sent me to his house instead. My half-siblings had skipped the service, and when I found them rifling through his study, I realized what they were up to.
My father left us when I was young, and despite attempts to reach out, I always got silence. His death left me confused—sad, angry, and maybe even relieved.
I attended the funeral despite doubts, wanting closure or to see who showed up. But when Grandma Estelle gripped my arm and gave me a key, whispering I needed to go to his house, I listened, unsure but trusting her.
I drove to his house, now pristine, and felt like an intruder. Inside, I heard my half-siblings searching for something. They were after money, but it didn’t matter to me. I didn’t want anything from my father, who hadn’t been there for me.
A man in a suit introduced himself as the family notary, explaining my father’s will. My half-siblings, furious, tried to claim everything, but Grandma Estelle revealed that my father had left everything to me—if they tried to cheat me out of it.
As the notary read the will, I learned that my father regretted his past. He apologized for abandoning me and expressed pride in the life I built without him. His words healed some old wounds, though I wished he had reached out sooner.
I was left in his house, unsure if it was too late to truly know him, but now I had a chance to find out.