I don’t enjoy Easter with my husband’s family. It’s not the holiday, but my mother-in-law’s constant judgment.
When Dave suggested we go to her place, I reluctantly agreed. The idea of facing her sharp remarks was tough, but I’d rather spend the day there than at home, surrounded by reminders of what we don’t have.
The morning went surprisingly well, with no barbed comments. But after the service, I saw a little girl sitting alone on the church steps with a basket, waiting for her dad. She looked lost and abandoned, so I approached her. She said her dad would pick her up, but no one came.
Cynthia wasn’t happy when I suggested we help her. “She’ll be fine,” she insisted. But I couldn’t leave her. I took the girl, Ava, with us, and when Dave arrived, he agreed she could stay.
At the house, things were tense. Ava quietly drew at the table. Then I found a photo in her bag — a young couple, the man with familiar green eyes. It was Dave. The little girl might be his daughter.
Dave was shocked when I showed him the photo. His mom, Cynthia, dismissed it, but Daisy, the woman in the photo, showed up at our door. She admitted that Ava was Dave’s daughter. She had tried reaching out before but had been blocked.
The truth came crashing down, and it was clear: Ava wasn’t a random child. She was Dave’s daughter, and I wasn’t going anywhere.
Cynthia, still holding onto her control, softened when Ava handed her a drawing of the family, including her. “Even the messiest families deserve to be together,” she finally said.
And in that moment, despite the chaos, I knew we were beginning to build something real.
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