I attended my father’s funeral out of guilt, not love. He abandoned us when I was six and never reached out again. At the funeral, my grandma Estelle whispered, “You shouldn’t be here,” then slipped me a key and told me to go to his house. I was confused, but I went.

Inside, I found his other kids — Robert Jr. and Barbara — fighting over documents. They froze when they saw me. Barbara said, “What is she doing here?” They were searching for the deed to the house, trying to claim everything.

A notary named Mr. Davis arrived, surprised to see me. “You’re Emily?” he asked. Grandma Estelle followed, saying, “He wanted her here.”

Mr. Davis read the will: my father left everything to be split equally — but if Robert or Barbara tried to cut me out, everything would go to me. They had tried. I inherited it all.

Grandma handed me a letter. It was from my father. He apologized for leaving, admitted he was a coward, and said he’d watched me grow from afar. “You became everything I wasn’t,” he wrote.

I cried — not for the man he was, but for the one he tried to be at the end.