Growing up, my father was never there—not for birthdays, school concerts, or even when I broke my arm at twelve. He left when I was five and vanished, never paying child support or checking in. My mom, on the other hand, was my hero. A nurse working endless shifts, she kept our tiny household running and fueled my passion for music. Despite our struggles, she managed to get me piano lessons and believed in my dream of composing music. That belief became something tangible the day I graduated high school—when I walked into our home to find a professional-grade digital piano, the exact one I had dreamed of. She had saved and sacrificed to make it happen.

Overwhelmed, I posted about it online, pouring my heart out in gratitude to my mom. But days later, my joy soured when I learned that my absent father had shared my post on his own social media, claiming he had bought me the piano. He wrote captions like, “So proud of my girl. Always believed in your dreams.” I was stunned. This man, who hadn’t spoken to me in years, was now using my success and my mother’s gift to play the role of the doting father online. I didn’t blast him publicly—I didn’t want to jeopardize the overdue support we were still trying to claim legally—but I was burning with anger.

Karma, though, had better timing than I could’ve planned. Weeks later, my mom and I went to a local community fundraiser. There, one of my dad’s coworkers—his boss, it turns out—recognized me and gushed about how my dad had been bragging for weeks about the piano he “bought me.” Without missing a beat, my mom coolly corrected him in front of a crowd: “Actually, my ex-husband hasn’t paid a cent in child support. That piano? I worked double shifts for it.” The man looked floored. And just like that, the truth snapped into place. My dad’s lies came crumbling down, and soon after, his boss let him go for being dishonest—and the court finally hit him with years of unpaid support.

Today, I play that piano every day, working toward a future my mother made possible. I’m heading off to college to study music, and every note I compose is rooted in her love and belief in me. As for my father? He learned the hard way that pretending to be a parent is nothing like actually showing up. And that sometimes, the truth shows up wearing scrubs, exhausted, but full of strength—and refuses to let a liar take credit for her child’s dreams.