Growing up, my older siblings always said I was Dad’s favorite, which made them resent me. They bullied me and excluded me, but I never cared—I just loved my father. When he was sick and fading away, I was the only one who stayed by his side. In his last moments, he handed me a small brass key and whispered it opened a secret cabinet in the basement. He told me, “You’ve earned this.”

At the reading of his will, my siblings were shocked and angry to learn they were left almost nothing. Dad left most of his estate to charity and gave each of them just a dollar. But for me, he left his love, trust, and that mysterious key. I was stunned but didn’t say a word. When I got home, I searched the basement and found the hidden cabinet.

Inside was a letter from Dad and a dusty journal. The letter revealed he’d secretly bought a second home in Vermont years ago and it was mine. The deed and keys were hidden inside the journal. Dad wanted me to have a fresh start, a place to call my own. Tears streamed down my face. This wasn’t just a house; it was his way of showing me I mattered, in a family where I always felt like an outsider.

My siblings tried to pressure me, but I kept the secret safe and made plans to visit the new home. The house was peaceful, surrounded by trees and memories Dad had left behind photos, letters, and his workbench. There, I began healing and writing about my journey. Dad’s gift wasn’t just property it was a new beginning. Sitting on the porch with his journal in my lap, I whispered, “Thank you, Dad.” For the first time, I felt truly seen and loved.