I thought I knew my home. I thought I knew my marriage. Then I found my pregnant daughter, Aurelia, lying on the hallway floor—and everything I believed unraveled.
I’m Calder, 55, born in Indiana, now managing logistics for a freight company. I’m a quiet man—routine-driven, frugal, steady. But Aurelia, my daughter, has always been the exception. She’s sharp, kind, and dryly funny. At 25, she’s seven months pregnant with my first grandchild. Time has moved too fast.
Years later, I met Vionna. She was warm, lively, and had a 13-year-old daughter, Sarelle. We married, blending our families. For a while, it worked. But Aurelia stayed guarded. Vionna was never openly cruel—just distant. Her coldness came in quiet corrections and subtle jabs: posture critiques, calling Aurelia “your daughter,” and nitpicking her tone. Sarelle mirrored her mother’s smirks and eye rolls. Aurelia kept the peace for my sake. I told myself Vionna was adjusting. I told myself I was imagining things.
Aurelia grew up, went to college, married Torren, and now carries their first child. We talk often. She lives in another city but promised her child would know their grandpa well. I set up the guest room for her visits—queen-sized bed, crib, fresh sheets. I wanted her to feel at home.
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