I’m 19 now, but I’ll never forget the first time I realized my father didn’t love me. I was five, staring at our family photos, noticing the blank look in his eyes when holding me as a baby. I’m Hannah, the oldest of four girls — Rachel, Lily, Ava, and me. To Dad, our biggest crime was not being boys.

One by one, Dad dropped us off at Grandma Louise’s house, saying we “didn’t count.” Mom didn’t stop him — she seemed too defeated. Years later, they finally had a son, Benjamin, their golden child. We barely heard from them until a lawyer came asking about our estranged grandfather Henry, who was wealthy and dying. Suddenly, Dad showed up with fake smiles, dragging us back home.

At their house, we were treated like servants while Benjamin lived like royalty. One morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I found Grandpa Henry and told him everything. To my surprise, he welcomed me in, called Grandma, and vowed to make things right. With the help of his niece, a lawyer, we fought for guardianship and proved Dad had abandoned us.

The judge gave custody to Grandma, and Henry rewrote his will, leaving everything to us girls. Dad exploded when he found out, then vanished. Benjamin stayed behind, spoiled but lonely. Henry spent his last years loving us, teaching, and making up for lost time. When he passed, he whispered, “I’m glad I did something right in the end.” And for the first time, I truly believed it.