From the moment I could remember, I knew my father didn’t love us—not me, not my three sisters. He wanted sons, not daughters. One by one, he sent us to live with Grandma Louise, pretending it was for the best, but we knew better. We were raised with kindness, love, and bedtime stories, but never by the people who brought us into this world. Years passed, and one day, our parents reappeared—not to reconnect, but to claim us when they found out we were named in our estranged grandfather’s will.

They moved us back under their roof with fake smiles and hollow promises, but it quickly became clear we were just pawns in their inheritance scheme. My youngest sister was mocked as “the spare,” and our roles in that house were more like maids than family. Tired and furious, I walked out one morning and went straight to Grandpa Henry—the man they’d all forgotten but who hadn’t forgotten us. I told him everything. And in that moment, he decided to step back into our lives for good.

With Grandpa’s help and the fierce legal mind of his niece—who had her own scores to settle—we fought back. Court battles followed, full of evidence, testimonies, and the truth we had carried for years. In the end, custody returned to Grandma Louise. As for the inheritance? Grandpa changed the will and left every cent to the four girls who’d been thrown away. Not a dime went to the parents who had tried to erase us.

The day we moved back home with Grandma, it felt like a piece of our childhood had been returned. Grandpa spent his final years making up for lost time—teaching, laughing, and loving us in a way we’d never known. When he passed, we were all by his side. And as he whispered that he was proud of us, I realized something: we were never the ones who weren’t enough—he was the one finally brave enough to see our worth.