After a Lifetime of Hate, My Stepfather Took Me to My Favorite Restaurant—But It Wasn’t Out of Love
Growing up, my stepfather, Mark, made it clear that I was never truly part of his world. When my mother remarried, I was only eight, still hoping for the kind of love I had read about in fairy tales. But Mark wasn’t the loving father figure I had imagined. He barely spoke to me, treated me like a burden, and only acknowledged me when it was necessary.
By the time I turned eighteen, I had accepted that he would never see me as anything but an inconvenience. So, when he unexpectedly invited me to dinner at my favorite restaurant, I was suspicious. Mark had never taken an interest in my life, let alone made an effort to spend time alone with me.
“Why now?” I asked, crossing my arms.
He shrugged, his face unreadable. “Just thought we should talk.”
The unease in my gut told me something wasn’t right, but against my better judgment, I agreed.
That evening, we sat across from each other at the little Italian restaurant I had loved since childhood. The scent of garlic and fresh pasta filled the air, but I had no appetite. Mark was oddly quiet, his usual stern demeanor replaced with something almost… anxious. He tapped his fingers against the table, avoiding my gaze.
Then, he slid a thick envelope across the table.
“What’s this?” I asked, my throat dry.
“Open it.”
I hesitated before peeling it open. Inside was a stack of legal documents. My name was all over them. As I scanned the pages, my heart pounded.
He was trying to sign over something to me—something big.
“My mother’s house?” I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mark nodded stiffly. “She left it to you in her will.”
I gripped the papers, my hands shaking. My mother had passed away six months ago, and since then, Mark had made it seem as if everything she owned belonged to him. I had assumed he would keep the house, selling it for profit or living in it himself. But now, here he was, giving it to me.
It should have been a moment of relief. A moment of closure. But the knot in my stomach tightened. “Why are you really doing this?”
Mark exhaled heavily, finally meeting my eyes. “Because I have no choice.”
The confession hit like a slap. Of course. It wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t love. It was guilt. Maybe my mother’s final wishes had left him no legal way around it. Maybe he just wanted to wash his hands of me. Either way, this wasn’t an act of generosity. It was an obligation.
I set the papers down, my appetite long gone.
“Enjoy your meal,” I said coldly, standing up. “It’s the last one you’ll ever have with me.”
And with that, I walked away, leaving him to sit alone—just as he had left me my entire life.
