I lost my daughter 13 years ago when my wife left me for another man. Yesterday, I got a letter addressed to ‘Grandpa Steve,’ and my heart nearly stopped when I read what had happened.
Thirteen years. That’s how long it had been since I last saw my daughter, Alexandra. She was only 13 when Carol, my ex-wife, packed up and left. I was 37.
Young teen girl with blue eyes smiling | Source: Midjourney
I still remember the day like it was yesterday. It was a warm, sticky summer evening, and I came home from work to find Carol sitting at the kitchen table, perfectly calm, waiting for me.
Back then, I was just a construction foreman in Chicago. Our company wasn’t huge, but we built all kinds of stuff: roads, office buildings, you name it. I worked my tail off with long days, scorching summers, and freezing winters.
Man working in construction | Source: Midjourney
It wasn’t exactly a glamorous job, but it paid the bills and then some. My boss, Richard, owned the company. He was older than me, always wore fancy suits, and had this fake smile that bugged me.
The guy loved to show off his money. He drove expensive cars and threw parties at his huge mansion outside of town. Carol, my wife, ate that stuff up. She loved getting dressed up and pretending she was part of that crowd. Meanwhile, I always felt like a fish out of water at those things.
Woman laughing at a party | Source: Midjourney
But perhaps, if I’d paid more attention, I would’ve seen my wife’s next move.
“Steve, this just isn’t working anymore,” she said in a clipped voice, like she was reading from a script.
I blinked at her, confused. “What are you talking about?”
She let out a small sigh. “I’m leaving. Richard and I are in love. I’m taking Alexandra. She needs a better life than this.”
The phrase “better life” still makes me angry. I worked hard, harder than most to provide Carol and Alexandra with everything they needed. We had a decent house in the Chicago suburbs, food on the table, and clothes to wear. Sure, it wasn’t fancy.
A house in the suburbs | Source: Midjourney
We didn’t go on vacations or have designer anything, but it was more than many people had. I didn’t understand what was so wrong with it. Carol, however, always wanted more: more money, more luxury, more of everything.
Therefore, she left to shack up with my boss, and my life was shattered. I still tried to be a good father to my daughter. But Carol poisoned her against me. I believe she told her I didn’t care about her and that I had been unfaithful.
Mother gossiping to her daughter | Source: Midjourney
I don’t know. What I do know is that eventually, my daughter stopped answering my calls and opening my letters. I no longer existed to her.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of my misfortunes. I spiraled into a depression and ignored my health until I ended up in a hospital bed, facing surgery after surgery. The medical bills were so high that I had to sell my house.
Eventually, my job let me go for taking too many days off, although not working for Richard anymore was a blessing.
During this time, Carol moved out of state with my ex-boss, and my Alexandra was gone for good.
Man in construction clothes sadly sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney
The years crept slowly by. I never remarried. I never wanted to. Instead, I worked hard to rebuild my health and focused on founding my own construction business. With that, I managed to claw my way back to a stable, if lonely, life.
At 50, I lived in a decent apartment, and I was financially independent. But there were many moments when I wanted my daughter back.
Wistful man in an apartment | Source: Midjourney
Then, yesterday, something happened that shook me to my core. I found a letter in my mailbox with a child’s handwriting, though they must have gotten help from an adult to address it.
The front said: “For Grandpa Steve.”
For a moment, I just stared at it. My hands started shaking. Grandpa? I wasn’t a grandpa. Or at least, I didn’t think I was. I tore the envelope open, and the first line nearly stopped my heart.
Man holding a letter saying “For Grandpa Steve” | Source: Midjourney
“Hi, Grandpa! My name is Adam. I’m 6! Unfortunately, you’re the only family I have left…”
I walked back to the house without thinking and sat on the couch to continue to read the letter. This Adam had help with some of the sentences, but he had written everything in these big, uneven letters.
It made me smile until Iread that he lived in a group home in St. Louis and that his mom, Alexandra, had mentioned me in passing.
He ended his message with: “Please come find me.”
Man holding a letter saying “Please come find me” | Source: Midjourney
Of course, I’d booked the earliest flight to St. Louis.
I didn’t sleep that night. How could I? Questions swirled in my mind. How did I have a grandson? Where was Alexandra? Why was he in a home?
Early the next morning, I was at the airport, and a few hours later, I was getting out of a taxi.
The shelter was a plain brick building with chipped paint and a sagging awning that read St. Anne’s Children’s Home. A woman named Mrs. Johnson met me in the lobby. She was around my age, with kind eyes and a soft voice.
Woman smiling at a children’s center | Source: Midjourney
“You must be Steve,” she said, shaking my hand. “Adam’s been waiting for you.”
“Where is he? Is he really my grandson?” My voice cracked, but I didn’t care.
“I’ll let you meet him soon,” she said gently, guiding me into her office. “But there’s something you need to know first. Please, have a seat.”
It was in that tiny room, filled with folders and surrounded by pictures of kids, that my life changed.
Man smiling in an office at a children’s center | Source: Midjourney
First, Mrs. Johnson confirmed that Adam was Alexandra’s son. She said she had greeted them herself the day my daughter surrendered custody of him, just a few months ago.
Mrs. Johnson told me the entire story in detail. Alexandra’s life had fallen apart after Carol kicked her out for getting pregnant at 20 without a husband. The father had left, of course.
Sad pregnant young woman at a bus stop | Source: Midjourney
Afterward, my daughter tried to make things work, juggling low-paying jobs while raising Adam in a tiny apartment. Then, a year ago, she met a rich man named David, who promised her a better life. But, he didn’t want someone else’s kid.
“That’s why she left him here,” Mrs. Johnson said. “She said she hoped he’d find a good home. I don’t think she knew how to love him even after all those years she raised him. It’s tragic, really.”
Woman at a desk in an office at a children’s center | Source: Midjourney
My stomach turned. Alexandra had abandoned her own child. My Alexandra? How had it come to this? And then, I realized what had happened. She had spent six years living a harrowing life and traded it for a wealthy man. Just like her mother. It wasn’t a completely equal situation, but it was close.
It was what Carol had taught her.
“And Adam?” I asked hoarsely. “How does he know about me?”
Emotional man in an office at a children’s center | Source: Midjourney
Mrs. Johnson smiled faintly. “He’s a smart boy. Apparently, he’d overheard your name during conversations Alexandra had with others. He even found an old diary that mentioned you. When she left him here, he told me he had a grandpa named Steve. I did some digging and found you. Then, we wrote the letter together.”
I nodded, still reeling, but Mrs. Johnson stood and walked to the door. “You know everything,” she smiled. “Adam’s outside in the playground. Are you ready to meet him?”
Woman smirking at the door of an office at a children’s center | Source: Midjourney
I nodded and followed her with my heart pounding in my ears.
***
Adam was small for his age, with shaggy brown hair and big blue eyes that looked just like Alexandra’s. He clutched a toy truck in one hand and looked up at me with curiosity and just a tad of shyness.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi, Adam,” I said, keeping my voice steady. I knelt so we were at eye level. “I’m your grandpa.”
Man smiling at an outdoor playground at a children’s center | Source: Midjourney
His eyes widened immediately, and a huge smile broke out on his face. “You’re finally here!” He jumped up and hugged me. “I knew you’d come!”
While I embraced my grandson for the very first time, I thought back to my life. I could hate Carol all I wanted. What’s more, that anger would probably get even stronger, considering that my daughter had turned into a version of her mother somewhere along the way.
But it was time to focus on what mattered. My grandson was in my arms, and he had been abandoned, just like me. That cycle ended here. Adam wasn’t going to grow up feeling unloved or unwanted. I didn’t care what it took. I was going to give him a home.
A boy with blue eyes smiling | Source: Midjourney
Minutes later, I told Mrs. Johnson, I wanted Adam with me, and she smiled. I noticed a sheen of tears in her eyes, but I didn’t mention it.
It was going to take some paperwork and time before I could take Adam back to Chicago. But Mrs. Johnson was confident there would be no issues if I took a DNA test to prove I’m his grandfather.
I promised to do that soon enough.
Man shaking hands with a woman at a children’s center | Source: Midjourney
Honestly, it’s strange how life works. Thirteen years ago, I lost my daughter. I thought I’d lost everything. But now, I had a grandson, and my whole life made sense again.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
My MIL Turned My Bathroom Into a Spa Using All My Stuff So I Planned the Perfect Revenge
I came home to find my MIL soaking in my tub, using my candlelight, my gel, and my towel. That’s when I knew — she hadn’t moved in. She’d taken over. So I smiled… and got creative.
I liked our life.
I really, really did.
There was something deeply satisfying about the way our apartment smelled like vanilla and order. The way the sun hit the kitchen counter at exactly 4 PM.
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The gentle silence after work — no one talking, no TV blaring, just me and the soothing gurgle of my espresso machine. Our space was calm. Predictable. Mine.
Then husband, Daniel walked into the laundry room with that cautious look husbands get when they know they’re about to ruin your day.
I was pulling socks from the dryer, feeling rather proud of my folding technique, when he cleared his throat.
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“Babe… We need to take in my mom for a few days.”
I paused, holding one of his socks.
“She okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. But her building had a pipe burst. Whole apartment’s soaked. Just a week. Maybe less.”
A week.
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I nodded. What else could I do? I wasn’t heartless.
“I’ll survive,” I muttered.
He kissed my cheek.
“You’re the best.”
Turns out, I overestimated myself.
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By day two, our apartment was unrecognizable. And not in a “cute makeover” kind of way.
My framed photos — gone. Just gone. Replaced with my MIL’s Linda sepia-toned portraits of her.
And with her first husband (Daniel’s dad, may he rest in peace). And her friend Carol from the hospital.
And a photo of a Chihuahua I’m 90% sure had been dead since the Clinton administration.
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And the smell. It hit you every time you walked into a room.
I found reed diffusers in the bathroom, little perfume balls on my vanity, and even a small pouch of potpourri in my underwear drawer. My underwear drawer.
Still, I didn’t say anything.
Linda was a guest. Until that night.
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I walked into the bathroom and saw her standing there, rubbing something into her décolletage.
It was MY precious, outrageously expensive, only-on-special-occasions, shipped-from-New-York-like-royalty cream.
“Oh, Emily! This cream! It’s divine. Where did you get it?”
My jaw made a noise but no words followed.
“It’s like silk!” she continued, squeezing out more. “You have such amazing taste.”
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She didn’t ask. She didn’t pause. She just helped herself.
I smiled. Nodded. Said nothing.
This is still tolerable. Barely. As long as she doesn’t cross the line.
***
The following day was brutal. Emails, phone calls, two back-to-back meetings, and a passive-aggressive lunch with my manager.
I just wanted peace at home. A shower. Ten minutes of being alone in my skin. I slipped off my shoes, turned on the kettle, and… froze.
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Singing. High-pitched, cheerful, and distinctly coming from the direction of our bedroom. I followed the sound. The door to our ensuite bathroom was cracked open. A thick curl of steam escaped into the hallway.
The scent hit me instantly — sweet, lush, unmistakably familiar. MY passionfruit bath gel. I pushed the door open, and there she was.
Linda. In MY tub!
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Reclining like she was in a commercial. Surrounded by candles, MY candles. Steam rising dramatically as if the universe was mocking me. She had MY bath brush, MY scrub, and MY purple towel folded nearby like a personal butler had placed it there.
“Emily!” she squealed, completely unbothered. “I thought you were asleep already!”
I just stood there.
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“Linda… this is our private bathroom.”
She waved a hand through the steam like she was shooing a fly.
“Oh, come on. We’re both women. You’re not using it right now, and this tub is perfect. Yours is so much nicer than the guest one.”
She picked up MY rose scrub like we were about to have a spa night together.
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“I didn’t think you’d mind. We girls share everything, right?”
I turned. Walked out.
That evening, I told Daniel — calmly. He slurped his soup and shrugged.
“She probably just needed a moment to herself. You know how she is. Besides, don’t women… do that? Share stuff?”
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I stared at him. Long and hard.
“You think this is normal?”
“It’s not not normal.”
I got up, went to the drawer, and found the old key to our bedroom. I had never used it before — but seemed like the time. Or so I thought.
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Because the following morning, I realized…
Locks mean nothing when the intruder has already decided she owns the place.
***
It was supposed to be my Saturday. My one day. No emails, no meetings, no small talk.
Just me, a yoga mat, lemon water, and my favorite playlist humming soft Tibetan bells. And finally — finally — felt like I could exhale.
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Until I heard it. Loud laughter. Music. Something clinked downstairs. Then footsteps — multiple — in heels.
No. No, no, no. Not today.
I grabbed my hoodie and padded down the stairs, barefoot and still slightly zen. But the moment I turned the corner into the living room, all chakra alignment vanished.
It looked like a senior prom with a dash of bingo night.
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There were at least six people — four older women in glittery tops and way-too-bold lipstick, two silver-haired gentlemen in suspenders sipping wine, and at the center of it all…
Linda! Waltzing.
With a tray of cheese cubes and mini crackers.
And what is she wearing? MY blouse.
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The one I bought three weeks ago to wear to my best friend’s birthday — silky, deep blue, low-cut but elegant.
I hadn’t even taken the tags off until the day before when I gently steamed it and hung it in the hall closet so it wouldn’t wrinkle. I felt my soul briefly leave my body.
“Emily, darling!” Linda beamed, spinning with a giggle. “We started without you! Come, meet everyone!”
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I stood frozen. Hair a mess, and barefoot, in my yoga top. One of the older gentlemen approached me with a charming bow.
“Care for a dance, my lady?”
Before I could respond, he took my hand and spun me once, twice, and I awkwardly stumbled right into a sequin-covered bosom.
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The woman he came with gave me a look that could curdle milk.
“Linda, honey… And who is this? What’s she doing in your house?”
My house?
I pulled away gently and marched Linda into the kitchen, still gripping the lemon water bottle like a weapon.
“What is this?” I hissed.
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“A party! Just a little something to lift the spirits. You weren’t using the living room anyway!”
“In my blouse? In my house?”
She gave me a look — sweet, almost maternal.
“I told them it was my home. Just to… you know, avoid questions. They wouldn’t have come if I’d said I was staying with my son and his wife. I just wanted to feel like a hostess again.”
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“And the blouse?”
“It was just hanging there. I thought, why not?”
“Everyone out. Now.”
She tilted her head.
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“Oh Emily, don’t be dramatic. What will Daniel say? Kicking his poor mother out after she’s had such a rough time?”
Her voice turned syrupy.
“He’ll be so disappointed.”
I stared at her. And smiled.
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“Fine. They can stay.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely,” I said, almost amused. “Make yourselves at home.”
Her face lit up with confusion and something that looked a lot like triumph.
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But inside me, something very different lit up.
Because if Linda thought she knew how to be petty… She hadn’t seen me take the tour group of silver-haired gentlemen through Daniel’s office yet.
Let’s just say…
Some people explore museums. I let them explore our home.
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With subtle suggestions and open doors.
And Linda?
She was about to find out what it felt like when someone touched what was mine.
***
The following morning began with a familiar, delicious tension in the air. Like the final act of a play where only I had read the script. Daniel’s voice cracked through the quiet,
“Emily! Why is my cologne bottle empty?!”
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I gently stirred my coffee, not even turning around.
“The brown one?” I asked sweetly.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding the bottle as it had personally betrayed him.
“This was nearly full! Now it’s bone dry. What happened?”
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I squinted thoughtfully.
“Oh. That might’ve been Thomas?”
“Thomas?”
“One of your mother’s gentlemen friends. He said the scent reminded him of his wilder days in Paris. He may have… gone a little overboard.”
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Daniel just stood there, blinking.
“He used my cologne?”
“He seemed really enthusiastic.”
Daniel turned without another word and stormed to the bedroom. I took a sip of coffee. Calm. Serene. Focused.
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Thirty seconds later, his shout echoed through the hall.
“My ties collection! One of my tie pins is bent! Who’s been in my tie drawer?!”
“Oh no,” I said, very gently. “Maybe the gentlemen got curious. You know, your collection impressed them.”
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He looked at me like I had just told him I microwaved his record player.
And then, right on cue, Linda swept into the kitchen in a satin robe, holding a grapefruit half and smiling.
“Morning, sweeties! Isn’t the air just delicious today?”
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Daniel rounded on her.
“Mom. Did your guests go through my stuff?”
“Oh, sweetheart, of course not. They’re perfectly respectful!”
“I’m going to work. I’ll deal with this tonight.”
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“Oh, I’ll walk you to the door,” I said sweetly. “You seem a bit… rattled.”
As he slipped on his coat, he turned to me slowly.
“You didn’t take the car out yesterday, right?”
I widened my eyes.
“Me? No. I thought about getting it washed, but I was too tired. I left the keys on the hallway shelf.”
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Pause.
“Oh no. Oh no. They were admiring the car yesterday. Your mother’s friends…”
Daniel walked out in silence. Two seconds later, I heard a sharp yell from the driveway. I didn’t even flinch.
“What happened, honey?” I called sweetly from the doorway.
“Did you… did you drive it?”
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“No, darling! Like I told you. Keys were on the shelf. I was upstairs. Doing yoga.”
Daniel looked past me, jaw tight. Then he turned to Linda.
“Mom?”
She looked cornered for the first time in days.
“Well… they were admiring the vehicle and… your wife let us…”
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“Emily?” Daniel cut in.
I met his eyes.
“I never left the attic floor, love. Downward Dog was very demanding.”
Silence. Daniel shook his head and rushed out.
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***
By noon, my husband was folding Linda’s cardigans like he was preparing an offering to a volcano god. He drove her to her apartment, and tipped the contractors extra to “wrap it up the next few days.”
Meanwhile, I had a small talk with Linda.
“Oh, Linda,” I called sweetly. “By the way… while you and the girls were sunbathing by the pool yesterday, I gave the gentlemen a proper tour of the house. You inspired me — it felt good to let others experience things that aren’t technically theirs.”
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She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
When Daniel returned, he dropped onto the couch and stared blankly into space, like a man who had just survived both a war and a bake sale led by his enemies.
I let him rest. Only once he was upstairs, did I allow myself a smirk.
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I could still see them in my head — those silver-haired explorers. Touching the marble paperweight on Daniel’s desk. Opening drawers they thought were just decorative. One of them even asked, “Is this vintage Armani?” while holding up a tie like it was on auction.
I said nothing. Just smiled.
Linda was lounging in her robe by the pool, sipping wine and boasting about her imaginary art collection. And me? I was planting breadcrumbs all over the house. Letting her friends wander. Letting them wonder.
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Of course, it wasn’t Thomas who used the cologne.
I sprayed half the bottle myself and left it uncapped.
No one scratched the car — well, not no one. I may have gently, artistically brushed it against the mailbox.
And the bent tie pin? Gloves on. Very respectful.
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That night, I ran the perfect bath with my passionfruit gel, lit my vanilla candle, and dropped my robe onto the warm floor tiles like a queen shedding armor.
The house was silent.
And somewhere in the distance, I imagined Linda staring at her beige apartment walls, wondering what exactly had just happened.
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Because when a woman touches your cream, your tub — it’s not about the things. It’s about the line she crossed.
And darling, once she crosses it — you don’t lecture. You don’t scream. You win.
And finally, with every breath of peace, I could hear the house itself whisper back to me.
Welcome home.
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: At 75, I thought my quiet life was set in stone until a five-year-old orphan looked at me like I was her only hope. That’s when everything unraveled at home. Read the full story here.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.
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