I was five when I realized my father didn’t love me. I sat on the couch, popsicle dripping down my hand, staring at family photos. His eyes in those hospital pictures—blank, like I was a mistake he couldn’t return.
My name’s Hannah. I’m the oldest of four girls: Rachel, Lily, Ava. To Dad, we were disappointments. He wanted a son. After I was born, he told Mom, “Don’t get too attached. We’ll try again.” Each time another girl arrived, his bitterness deepened. No hugs. No pride. Just silence.
Eventually, he found a solution: out of sight, out of mind. One by one, he dropped us off at Grandma Louise’s house. I was first, before my first birthday. Then Rachel, Lily, Ava. He spaced it out—months between each drop-off—to keep up appearances. But the message was clear: we didn’t count.
Grandma loved us fiercely but feared rocking the boat. “I didn’t want to risk him cutting off all contact,” she once whispered, clutching Ava’s old blanket. Mom didn’t fight either. She’d married young, dropped out of college, and followed Dad’s orders without question. I think she resented us too—not because we were girls, but because we kept showing up in a life she wasn’t ready for.
We grew up with Grandma, piecing together our worth from her love and each other’s strength. But I never forgot. I carried that rejection like a stone in my chest.
At 18, I applied to law school. I worked, studied, and clawed my way into a future Dad never imagined for me. When I turned 19, I filed a lawsuit—against him. Not for money. For recognition. For abandonment. For every silent dinner and every bag he packed.
He tried to dismiss it. “It’s family business,” he said. But the court didn’t agree. The case made headlines. He was forced to face what he’d done—not just to me, but to all of us.
He lost. Publicly. Legally. Emotionally. And I didn’t do it out of spite. I did it so he’d finally see us—not as failed sons, but as daughters who survived him.
