When my stepfather fell seriously ill, his biological daughter never showed up—so I did. I moved in, cared for him day and night, and held his hand when he passed. At the funeral, his daughter coldly told me the house was hers, and I left without a fight.
A month later, she called in panic. My stepfather had quietly tested who would stay when things were hardest. He left the house to his daughter—but his savings and future security to me, the one who never walked away.