I was tidying up after storytime with my three-year-old when the doorbell blasted like an emergency. Wiping my hands, I thought it might be a stressed delivery guy. Instead, a rough-looking man in his 60s stood there, his eyes sweeping over my home’s warm rugs and family photos. His sly grin sent a shiver through me. “Rachel, I’m your father,” he said, his voice coarse but confident. I froze, the word “father” stirring a past I’d buried after adoption at six.
“I don’t know you,” I said, clutching the door. He smirked. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here for my cut—half of everything.” He gestured at my house, my car, my life. “You’re doing great because I let you go. Time to share.” My heart pounded. Half? This stranger’s nerve, claiming my hard-won life, stunned me. Memories of foster care—hungry nights, harsh homes, and constant moves—flooded back. “You left me,” I said, trembling. “You don’t know what I endured.”
He waved me off. “You’re set now. You’re welcome.” I snapped, “You’re nuts. You can’t ask for anything after 25 years.” His smirk wavered as he looked past me, his face uneasy. I turned to see my husband, Tom, entering the foyer, holding our son’s toy car and his tablet. His steady gaze sized up the man. “Who’s this?” he asked, his tone firm. “My biological father,” I said, bitter. “He wants half my stuff for ‘giving me a chance.’”
Tom’s eyes darkened. He set the car down and stepped forward, a protective barrier. “You’ve got guts,” he told the man. The stranger tried to stand tall. “It’s only right,” he said. “She’s here because of me.” Tom
