Before he passed, my dad kicked my stepmom out of the house. We thought he did it to protect the inheritance, but the truth left me stunned.
I never realized just how meticulous—and deeply emotional—my father truly was.
I’m the youngest of three siblings. I have two older brothers. My mom passed away when I was just over a year old—before I could even say “Mommy.” Three years later, Dad remarried. Her name was Linda. She was petite, quiet, and soft-spoken.
It was Linda who raised me. I was a sickly little four-year-old, barely growing, and she patiently fed me oatmeal spoon by spoon. She took me to preschool, waited outside after class every day, and when I began first grade, she was so proud you’d think I was her own child.
To me, she wasn’t “Dad’s wife” or “stepmom”—she was just Mom, in her own way.
But to my brothers, she was always an outsider.
My brothers were 10 and 13 when Linda entered our lives. They couldn’t stand her. I’d overhear them muttering, “She’s not our real mom—just Dad’s new wife.” They filled my head with suspicion: “She’s only nice to you to win over Dad. Watch yourself. She’ll stab you in the back.”
At times, I believed them. I began pushing her away. I’d argue, act out—I even once cut up one of her blouses in anger. But one night, I saw her quietly crying alone in her room. I cried too.
As I grew older, I saw through everything. We didn’t share blood, but Linda was more loving to me than anyone else. So, I changed. I called her “Mama Linda” and treated her with the love she gave me from the start.
I even once saw my dad embracing her gently, muttering that she had to be patient with my brothers. “They’re like that because they lost their mom so young,” he told her. Linda didn’t answer—just nodded with tears in her eyes. She never once yelled at them, no matter how cruel they were. Maybe that’s why they mistreated her even more.
Eventually, both of my brothers married and moved out. It was just me, Dad, and Linda at home.
Earlier this year, my dad fell seriously ill. For reasons I didn’t understand, he started snapping at Linda constantly. He seemed irritated by everything she did.
Then one weekend, when my brothers came over with their families, something sh0cking happened—right in front of everyone, my father shouted at Linda and told her to get out of the house.
She didn’t argue. She just looked shaken, packed a bag, and waited for things to calm down.
A few weeks later, Dad called a family meeting. I arrived late due to work. When I walked in, the tension was thick. Linda was packing her suitcase again. My father, cold and distant, told her:
“You and I have nothing to do with each other anymore. Leave. Don’t come back.”
I was stunned. I asked what was going on. He refused to answer. Linda just looked at me with sad eyes and said gently, “Don’t say anything. Just let it go.” Then she walked out the door with her suitcase—her figure etched in my memory forever.
I wanted to run after her, but my dad yelled at me to stop.
Two weeks later, he passed away.
Linda took charge of the funeral—quietly, as if she were the widow. Once it was over, she left again. My brothers didn’t stop her. They even whispered that maybe Dad had kicked her out before he passed away to make sure she wouldn’t claim any of the inheritance.
After the traditional 49-day mourning period, we gathered to divide the estate: a suburban three-story house, a small plot of land, and some farmland our family still owned out by the county line. It was straightforward—split three ways.
I thought that was the end of it.
Until I ran into my dad’s old friend at a grocery store.
After a bit of catching up, he said, “You know, your father came to me about four months ago. He bought a house under my name.”
That didn’t make sense—until he added: “He signed everything over to Linda. Completely. All in her name.”
A month before he kicked her out.
I sat there, stunned.
Turns out, my father hadn’t expelled her because he feared she’d steal from us. On the contrary—he was afraid we’d take everything from her.
He knew how my brothers felt. Maybe he even suspected that once he was gone, they’d drive her out without a second thought. So he made sure she’d have her own place. Safe. Protected.
I found Linda’s new address and went to see her. It was a small house, but the porch was sunny and clean. She opened the door with the same gentle smile, that familiar warmth.
We sat and talked for a long time.
And in the quiet of her kitchen, I understood. My father had made the right decision. Because if my brothers had known, they would’ve destroyed her peace—and maybe even taken everything.
Linda never wanted anything from us. All she did was love and care for a child that wasn’t hers—quietly, patiently, for decades.
I never expected my father to be so careful, so thoughtful. He hid his emotions, but in the end, he protected the one woman who stood by us when no one else would.
