If you go through with this, you’re no longer my daughter.” Those were the last words my father said to me three years ago, after I told him I was pregnant and marrying Lucas, a carpenter he considered beneath me. He shut the door, and I thought I’d lost him forever.

Life with Lucas wasn’t easy—especially after our “twins” turned out to be triplets—but love and hard work carried us through. Lucas’ carpentry business grew, we built a modest home, and for the first time, I felt at peace.

Then the phone rang. My father’s voice was cold: “I’m coming tomorrow. One chance, Lily. If you refuse, it’s goodbye forever.” The next day, his sleek black car pulled into our driveway. He walked through our home, inspected everything, and said bitterly, “You could’ve had more. Come back with me.”

I stood my ground. “We already have everything we need.” He stormed out—but hours later, he returned, broken, in tears. For the first time, he admitted he was wrong. When the triplets toddled in, one asked, “Grandpa?” His answer was choked but certain: “Yes. Grandpa’s here now.”