My name is Rufus. I grew up in Indiana, but my profession in freight logistics has led me to a lot of other states. I am 55 years old. I am naturally steady. I am disciplined, careful with money, and don’t talk too much. But my daughter Emily is the only one who can get through to me when I’m calm. She’s educated, charming, and pretty independent now that she’s 25. She is also seven months pregnant with her first child, who will be my first grandchild.
Ten years ago, when Emily was just fifteen, her mother Sarah, who was my first wife, died of cancer. It devastated both of our hearts to lose it. The house was quiet, and the walls were full of melancholy. Emily shut down emotionally, and even though I was having a hard time too, I stayed strong for her. We got through those years in some way, but they will always be with us.
I finally met Linda, a woman who was full of love and vitality. She has a daughter named Jesse who was thirteen at the time. It looked like fate had given us each a second chance. We were both single parents trying to get back on our feet. We were married and attempted to get our families together, but it was never easy. Emily was still shy, and Linda never showed me the kind of affection I wanted.
She wasn’t trying to be rude, but the way she treated Emily made her feel bad. Not too apparent criticisms, small barbs that sound like guidance, and comments on how Emily sounds. At dinner, she would call her “your daughter” instead than “our daughter.” Jesse started to act the same way, with her own smirks and eye rolls.
Emily didn’t say much that was wrong. She constantly responded yes when I asked her whether everything was good. But a father knows. She was keeping me out of trouble, and I persuaded myself that Linda just needed some time.
It took years. Emily went to college, married a great guy, and built her own life. I couldn’t be happier that she’s going to have a baby now. I made the guest room ready with a new queen bed and even put up a crib before she got there. I wanted her to know that she could always come around.
Last week, I was supposed to be out of the country for work. Emily drove down to surprise me while I was away. I encouraged her to get comfortable, not knowing that my meetings were over early. I got home after midnight. I was tired from the trip but delighted to be back. I felt better as soon as I went in.
I noticed Emily sleeping on a thin air mattress on the floor in the dark hallway. Her blanket barely covered her, and even while she was asleep, her face seemed tense. My heart sank.
I knelt down next to her and softly uttered her name. She shifted and then looked up at me. Her eyes filled with tears as she saw me.
“Why are you out here?” I asked quietly.
“Because of Linda,” she murmured, and her voice broke.
She added that Linda told her that the couch was being fixed, all the rooms were full, and the only option was the air mattress. But I knew better. I had seen the guest room before I left. The bed was made, the crib was readied, and everything else was ready for Emily to come. Linda had lied when she closed the door and pretended the room didn’t exist.
I was upset, but I kept my calm for Emily’s sake. I held her and promised her it wouldn’t last. Then I told her to go to sleep. After that, I went to see the guest room myself. It was just how I left it—untouched.
The next morning, I put my plan into action. I took a big parcel home with me and delivered it to Linda in the kitchen. It was tied up with a cheap ribbon. She was looking forward to opening it, but all she found were black trash bags. I spoke right to her, “Packing material,” and her smile went away. You and Jesse have three days to get out.
She sought to downplay what she had done by calling it “a misunderstanding” and giving reasons for it. But I could see through the lies. I told her that I had checked the guest room and that she had made Emily seem bad on purpose. I also told her that her jealousy had been a problem in our marriage from the beginning. When Jesse came down, I told him and his parents the same thing: they had three days to depart.
Emily and I kept strong, even though the next three days were hard. I helped her pack Linda’s things, gave her breaks, and made sure she was well. They left on the third day. There was no apology or effort to make things right; only doors slamming and silence.
For the first time in years, the house seemed peaceful. Emily sat on the bed in the guest room that night. It was the same room that her stepmother had told her she couldn’t have. She responded, “Thank you, Dad,” and rubbed her belly with her hand while looking at the crib in the corner.
I kissed her on the forehead and murmured, “Always.”
The next week, I asked for a divorce. Linda tried to adjust the story for other individuals, but the truth came out soon. People knew what she was up to. I was just happy.
For a few more weeks, Emily stayed with me. We painted the nursery, argued over baby mobiles, and made plans for the future. The house was full of laughter again when her husband came to get her. I hadn’t heard that kind of laughing since Sarah died.
I see Emily a lot these days. I help her with her appointments and make sure the guest room is always ready. The crib is still there, with new curtains, waiting for my grandson to come and stay.
A family isn’t made up of legal papers and forced ties. It is defined by love and loyalty, as well as people who show up when it matters most.