WHEN I CAME HOME, SHE WASN’T CRYING ABOUT OUR BABY—

After remarrying Renée, my daughter Aislin, hurt by my divorce at twelve, demanded I choose—her or my new family. At seventeen, she harassed Renée, refused therapy, and after a cruel fight, I cut contact for ten years. She never met her half-brother Luka despite my outreach.

Last week, she called to introduce her son Mateo, not forgiving me. Bonding with Mateo over toys and pancakes, her pickup was brief. Soon, Renée reported a break-in—my sentimental box, including a family photo, was stolen. Aislin texted “Sorry,” returning the box with a letter confessing her break-in to feel remembered, shaken by my time with Mateo. I left a welcoming voicemail. At a park two weeks later, she gave me Mateo’s drawing, asking if he could call me “Pop.” We’re not healed, but showing up begins the repair. Don’t give up—some doors open slowly.