My dad threw my sisters and me away like junk mail—just because we weren’t boys. I was only five when I realized he didn’t love me. Each time Mom gave birth to another daughter, his disappointment grew thicker. By the time my youngest sister Ava was born, he quietly dropped us off at Grandma’s, one by one, like we didn’t matter.

We grew up in Grandma Louise’s warm little home, with bedtime stories and birthday cakes. Mom and Dad barely called, except to announce the birth of their golden child—Benjamin, the son they always wanted. They paraded him in front of us once, then disappeared again. It stung, but we got used to being forgotten.

Years later, when Grandpa Henry was dying and left us girls in his will, Dad suddenly reappeared with fake smiles and a moving truck. He wanted to “reunite,” but it was all about money. We were nothing more than pawns in his greedy plan. After weeks of cold stares and harder chores, I walked six miles to Henry’s house and told him everything.

Henry stepped up. With help from Grandma and a lawyer with a score to settle, we went to court. We won. Full custody went to Grandma—and every penny of the inheritance stayed with us girls. Dad got nothing. And in the last two years of his life, Henry made up for lost time. When he died, surrounded by all four of us, he said, “I’m glad I did something right in the end.”And we were glad, too.