Clara had always mistaken kindness for weakness.
After her mother died, I raised her alone. I worked overnight shifts, packed school lunches half asleep, paid her college tuition, covered her debts twice, and spent years pretending not to hear the little insults she tossed at me when she grew older.
She mocked my old coats.
Called my accounting office “depressing.”
Rolled her eyes whenever I talked about budgets or savings.
Then Victor entered her life.
Smooth voice. Expensive shoes. Greedy eyes.
The kind of man who smiled warmly while calculating exactly what you owned.
Within months, Clara only visited when she needed money. Soon, she started calling me controlling whenever I refused her requests.
Then came the paperwork.
“Just routine forms, Dad,” she had said casually one afternoon. “In case your health ever declines.”
I refused to sign.
Apparently, that didn’t stop them.