My father passed away when I was only five years old. He was my entire world, and his absence left a void in my life that nothing could fill.
A few months later, my mother met another man. Her new husband was cruel and unbearable. I remember his insults, his mockery, and the constant belittling. There was no end to those terrible days where every disapproving glance and every undone chore became an excuse for his anger.
Unfortunately, my mother always sided with him. No matter how much I suffered, she refused to see it.
When I finished school, my only thought was how to escape that house.
I enrolled in a technical high school in my hometown. Living in a dormitory finally gave me a taste of freedom. I worked hard, studied, and fought for my place in the world.
Then, on my birthday, my mother called me. She invited me to dinner, saying she had a surprise for me. But instead of a celebration, she handed me a stack of papers.
“Sign this,” she said. It was a document confirming that my father had left our house to me. They wanted me to transfer the property to my stepfather.
At that moment, years of pain and injustice erupted inside me. I looked at them and, without hesitation, refused.
With a newfound strength I had never felt before, I threw them out of my house.
Now, I am rebuilding my life, reclaiming everything that was taken from me. I am no longer a helpless child. I am strong, and I will never let anyone take away what is rightfully mine again.
