A Father’s Love, Worth Only Paper

My father once said that when a person dies, they leave their most prized possession to the one they love the most.

When he passed away, my younger sister inherited three houses and two million dollars in cash.

My mother, her eyes red from crying, shoved a thick photo album into my arms. Her voice choked with sobs. "Your father loved you the most, Shavon."

I opened the album. On the back of every single photograph was my father's handwritten signature.

The photos were all of me, crouching by the front door of my grandmother's house. They documented, from countless angles, the six years I spent as a "left-behind child," waiting for my parents to come back for me.

I looked up, only to see my mother and sister turning their faces away, deliberately avoiding my gaze.

So, in my father's heart, this album filled with years of agonizing waiting was what he considered his "most prized possession."

...

The room was so quiet I could hear my own breathing.

The album stopped at the days right before they finally brought me home. A tiny version of me, wearing patched-up clothes, stumbling eagerly into my parents' arms.

They sandwiched me between them, hugging me incredibly tight.

"Are you going to go far away again?" I had looked at them timidly, tilting my small head up, trying desperately not to let my tears fall.

They both kissed my cheeks, squishing my face. My dad's voice was firm and resolute. "Never. Our family will never be apart again."

That was the most sincere lie he ever told me.

And it was the only time his words would come back to slap him in the face so viciously.

Because the very next year after bringing me home, they had my little sister, Mia. They said it was so I would have a companion.

So that when they grew old, I would have someone to "discuss things with."

Thinking back on it now, what exactly was there to discuss?

Discussing who would pull his oxygen tube? No, I didn't think so.

Because the daughter he claimed was "least favored"my sisterdidn't visit him a single time while he was paralyzed from his stroke. She didn't even show up to see him take his last breath.

It seemed the only person I had to "discuss" things with was myself.

The album turned to the second page. A small figure standing under a decaying red wooden door.

My "companion" didn't keep me company. Using my schooling as an excuse, my parents took Mia and moved away for work...

"Shavon."

"Hey, Sis."

Their voices broke my train of thought, pulling me back from six years of childhood isolation.

My sister and mother awkwardly looked away. It was my mother who finally braced herself to look at me. "Are you okay?"

I pressed my lips together and offered a light, dismissive smile.

What could possibly be wrong?

I was my father's "most beloved" daughter. That was all.

My mother's eyes were filled with complex emotions. Her hand hovered in the air, wanting to comfort me, but it never landed.

Her mouth opened, but she couldn't force out a single word.

Mia forced a smile, looking incredibly unnatural. "Sis, don't take it to heart."

"Dad really did love you more. He gave you his most precious possession."

I turned to look at her. She was rubbing her nose, her eyes darting everywhere but at me.

"Is that so? How about I give you this 'love,' and we trade?"

She glared at me. Before she could snap back, my mother reached around from behind and covered her mouth.

"Your sister is young. Don't stoop to her level."

Right. A six-year age gap.

I was forty. She was thirty-six.

We were both mothers now, yet in my mother's eyes, she was still just a child.

I waved the photo album and smiled, raising an eyebrow. "I'm just messing with her. Dad loved me the most; how could I ever bear to trade?"

Ignoring my mother's distrustful gaze, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and pasted on a fake smile. "I'm really fine."

"The burial is done, the estate is divided. Since there's nothing else, I'll be going."

My mother watched me leave with a tight smile, offering a hollow platitude. "Stay a little longer."

"You'll miss home when you leave."

Yet her feet remained firmly glued to the floor.

I waved them off. "No need."

"Home," according to my father's will, had already been transferred to Mia.

Every trace of my existence had long been scrubbed from that small two-bedroom apartment. The other two properties were permanently rented out. I had nowhere to sit, let alone sleep.

I took one last look at Mia, hiding safely behind my mother, staring at me with pure resentment. I looked at the house I had lived in for less than five years.

There was nothing of me here. Only a younger sister draped in designer brands, protected by our mother.

I closed the door. The heavy stares disappeared.

The air out in the hallway tasted slightly sweet.

A sudden, inexplicable lightness washed over my entire body.

Even the photo album in my hands looked a bit more tolerable.

I just didn't understand why my chest felt so hollow, why my throat was tightening.

Even my tears betrayed me, blurring the makeup I had spent an hour applying.

Maybe it was because I finally accepted reality.

In his heart, Mia was worth three houses and two million dollars. And I was worth a photo album.

Dad's "most precious love"... it turned out I was the only one stupid enough to take it seriously.

I couldn't help but find it hilarious.

I wiped away my tears and practically fled the building, clutching the album to my chest.

Even after sitting in my own bedroom for an hour, my mind was entirely blank. My husband, David, reached out and gently touched my forehead. "If you need to cry, my shoulder is right here."

Was I sad? Honestly, no.

Just a dry throat and stinging eyes. Nothing more.

David gently took the album from my hands. "You as a kid? You were pretty cute."

As he slowly flipped through the pages, my brain felt like a tangled ball of yarn.

The night my father passed, we had actually argued about this very issue.

"We had to leave you at your grandmother's house back then. We had no choice. But later, we brought you back," he had said, his trembling hand grabbing mine.

"No one in this family ever played favorites. You're just too calculative."

"When you have kids of your own, you'll understand my intentions."

I had mercilessly pried his fingers off mine, meticulously wiping my skin where he had touched me. "I can stop calculating. But while you were paralyzed, why did you only call for me, and never for her?"

The father and daughter had fallen into a suffocating silence.

My dad, who usually loved to complain about how clumsy and useless Mia was, didn't utter a single word in her defense.

This deeply skewed, biased love had always been our family's poison. It was the knot I could never untie.

He didn't say anything. His mouth hung open, but the words never came, and then, he took his last breath.

Six years of being a left-behind child felt like a cosmic joke. In a trance, I remembered my grandmother wiping away my tears over and over again. "Your dad went to get medical treatment. When he's better, he'll come pick you up."

Yeah. He got better, and I went home.

But arriving with them was Mia, born the year after they left. My dad had patted my head, speaking with heavy significance. "Mia is your companion. When we're old, you'll have someone to discuss things with."

"She's too young; she needs constant care. So we have to take her with us."

"You have school tomorrow. We're just going away for two months. We'll be back soon."

I remember frowning, throwing a tantrum on the floor. "Liars! You can't take me because of your medical treatment, so why are you taking Mia?!"

A little girl's tears didn't buy any sympathy from my parents.

Early the next morning, they left.

The space next to my bed was empty and freezing cold.

And so began my next cycle of living under someone else's roof.

Because of school districts, I was moved from my loving grandmother's house to my step-grandmother's house.

She was my grandfather's second wife, a harsh woman who absolutely despised me.

Annoyed at having an extra mouth to feed, she constantly scowled. "Why do girls eat like pigs?"

"When you're done stuffing your face, go wash the dishes."

"You're so lazy. No one will ever marry you. No wonder your own parents don't even like you."

Her vicious words hit me right in the chest. I didn't understand what I had done wrong.

My shoulders shook violently as I let my tears fall silently onto the freshly washed bowls.

The brutal truth of the world is: it doesn't matter if you make mistakes. As long as you are the favored one, you win by simply existing.

Love doesn't care about timing or logic. As long as it's her, she wins.

It took me half my life to finally understand that sentence.

David continued turning the pages until he reached the very end.

It wasn't a family portrait. It wasn't a photo of me and my dad.

It was a photo of David and me.

My dad took it himself during a family trip, right before I married David and moved to a different city.

Scrawled at the bottom in crooked handwriting were the words: My daughter has truly grown up. Is it time I let go and let her be a free bird?

As I rubbed my thumb over the ink, I quickly felt a raised texture on the back of the photo.

Written on the back were two words: I'm sorry.

When my eyes locked onto those letters, it felt like a thousand needles plunged straight into my heart. It hurt so much I stopped breathing; it hurt so much I couldn't even cry.

Back then, he had sneered, "A married daughter is like spilled water."

"If you marry someone far away, you think it'll be easy to come home?"

"You think the world is so simple. You'll definitely never come back. Maybe not for a year, maybe not for ten..."

Young and full of pride, I refused to accept it. I believed that as long as I had money, distance meant absolutely nothing.

And I was right. I was incredibly driven.

I grabbed every single opportunity to climb the ladder. I worked a corporate job during the day and wrote web novels at night.

My career skyrocketed, and my first novel became a massive hit.

Aside from the first two years of our marriage when money was incredibly tight, I flew home twice a year, every year, staying for two months at a time.

Just like summer and winter breaks in school. Arrive on time, leave on time.

Until one trip, I found the locks on the front door had been changed.

"Don't come home so often," my dad's booming voice came through the phone receiver, stabbing my heart.

My voice trembled. "Why?"

"Stop asking why. The house belongs to your sister now. If you need something, wait until I come visit you."

It turned out Mia had her eye on a guy from another city. My parents were worried about her, so they rode the train with her to meet his family.

As for the house? Because the guy was broke and couldn't afford a down payment, my dad proudly declared, "You married someone else and moved away. If I don't give it to your sister, who do I give it to?"

"If I give it to her, she'll stay close and take care of me. The house is her leverage."

"Once she has the house, she'll settle down here with us."

So, the real reason they had forced me to buy a house in my husband's city years ago was so they could give their own house to Mia.

I had glared at them, pointing a shaking finger. "If you wanted to give her the house, fine. But why did you force me to buy one near you guys in the first place?"

My dad grew impatient and practically shoved me out the door. "Stop asking so many damn questions!"

"Your wings are fully grown now! If you don't want to be here, then get the hell out!"

"It's my damn house! I'll give it to whoever I want!"

Right. Three houses. They lived in one, gave one to Mia, and rented the third one out.

And under his strict demands, I had to buy a house in my new city using the money that was supposed to be my dowry.

They provided absolutely zero financial support for my wedding. They just said they wouldn't ask for a bride price from David, and that the house we bought would serve as "their" leverage for me.

The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the sound of laughter inside.

Returning to the apartment I bought myself, I couldn't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Come visit often. A promise nobody else in that house gave a damn about, but I was the only idiot who took it seriously.

My phone ringing shattered my memories.

It was Mia.

"Sis, I'll give you one of the houses. Can we talk?"