She Called Her Father a Failure — Until the Day She Opened His Final Gift

After his wife’s death, a struggling father became both Mom and Dad to his only daughter. But in her desperate need to fit in with her wealthy friends, she resented his job and told him he wasn’t enough. Then one day, she opened the final gift he’d saved for her… and it shattered her heart.

Paul wiped down the last table of his evening shift, his calloused hands moving in practiced circles. Around him, waiters in crisp white shirts glided between tables, carrying plates of food that cost more than what he made in a day.

A man wiping a table in a restaurant | Source: Pexels

A man wiping a table in a restaurant | Source: Pexels

“Hey Paul, you almost done, man? Chef wants to know if you can stay late tonight. The Hendersons are here.” Marcus, the head waiter, straightened his already perfect tie.

Paul glanced at his watch—8:15 p.m. His 16-year-old daughter, Samara, would be home alone. Overtime meant extra money, and they desperately needed that. However, Paul wasn’t in a spot to extend his shift.

“Sorry, Marcus. I can’t tonight. My daughter…”

Marcus nodded with understanding. “No problem. We’ll manage. See you tomorrow!”

“Always,” Paul replied with a tired smile.

A teenage girl lying on a mattress | Source: Pexels

A teenage girl lying on a mattress | Source: Pexels

The restaurant was in Westlake Heights, where houses looked like miniature castles. It was a far cry from the modest apartment he and Samara shared in River Bend, a neighborhood that had been up and coming for decades.

Paul’s beat-up Corolla protested as he turned the key. If traffic was kind, he’d be home by 9:00 p.m., just in time to see Samara before she retreated to her room for the night.

The drive home was always bittersweet. It had been five years since Elizabeth’s death, five years of being both mother and father, and five years of watching Samara drift like a boat with no anchor.

Elizabeth had been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer when Samara was 11. The doctors gave her six months and she fought for nine.

A cancer patient sitting in a hospital ward | Source: Pexels

A cancer patient sitting in a hospital ward | Source: Pexels

Paul remembered those final days with painful clarity—the hospital smell, the steady beep of monitors, and Elizabeth squeezing his hand one last time, whispering, “Take care of our little girl.”

He had promised, but lately he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was failing.

***

Paul pulled into the apartment complex parking lot at 8:50 p.m. He unlocked the door quietly, hoping to find Samara studying or watching TV. Instead, darkness and silence greeted him.

“Sam? Sweetie, I’m home… Samara?” he called, flipping on the light.

The living room was empty. The plate of lasagna he’d prepared sat untouched on the counter and his phone buzzed with a text from Samara:

“At Lily’s. Studying. Be home late. Don’t wait up.”

A man looking at his phone | Source: Pexels

A man looking at his phone | Source: Pexels

Paul’s shoulders slumped. Lily was the daughter of an affluent industrialist, and they lived in a mansion with an indoor pool and a home theater. She had everything Samara wanted… designer clothes, the latest gadgets, and parents who could afford to give her the world.

With a heavy sigh, he texted: “It’s a school night. Be home by 10. And did you take your pepper spray?”

Paul watched the screen and the typing bubbles blinked on.

“Whatever. I’m not some helpless little girl. It’s not the damn 1950s. 🙄

He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that carried more than just air. But he didn’t text back. He knew better by now.

A disheartened man sitting on the chair | Source: Pexels

A disheartened man sitting on the chair | Source: Pexels

Paul ate alone, scrolling through the old photos on his phone… pictures of Elizabeth, healthy and laughing, and the three of them at the beach and Disneyland. They looked like a different family—happy, complete, and untouched by grief and financial struggle.

At 10:30 p.m., Samara walked in. At 16, she was the spitting image of her mother with the same hazel eyes and delicate nose. Her long brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and she wore a pink sweater Paul didn’t recognize.

“You’re late!”

Samara rolled her eyes. “It’s only THIRTY minutes.”

Cropped shot of a girl wearing a pink sweater and blue jeans | Source: Pexels

Cropped shot of a girl wearing a pink sweater and blue jeans | Source: Pexels

“We had an agreement, Sam. Home by ten on school nights.”

“God, Dad, I was studying with Lily. Her parents ordered pizza and insisted I stay for dinner.”

Paul noticed the logo on her sweater that belonged to an upscale boutique. “Is that new?”

“Lily gave it to me. She was going to donate it anyway. It’s not a big deal.”

But it was. Paul knew pride was all they had sometimes, and accepting hand-me-downs from her wealthy friend felt like another reminder of what he couldn’t provide.

A depressed man | Source: Pexels

A depressed man | Source: Pexels

“Oh, and I need $75 for the science museum field trip next week,” Samara added.

Paul felt his stomach tighten. That meant cutting back on groceries or skipping a bill payment. “I’ll figure it out,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Lily invited me to her family’s lake house this weekend,” Samara continued, her hand already on her doorknob.

“This weekend? I thought we could visit Mom’s grave on Saturday.”

Something flickered across her face… pain, guilt, or perhaps just annoyance. “Do we have to? I sometimes go on my own.”

“You do?” This surprised Paul.

“Sometimes,” Samara repeated vaguely before disappearing into her room.

A grieving young lady mourning beside a loved one's grave | Source: Freepik

A grieving young lady mourning beside a loved one’s grave | Source: Freepik

While driving through town the next day, Paul passed the bustling shopping district of Westlake Heights. He spotted Samara outside Gadgets & Gizmos, staring intently at something in the display window before walking away with a deep sigh.

Curious, Paul approached the storefront. The window featured a crystal ballerina figurine priced at $390. His heart sank at the number, but he wondered how many times she’d walked by just to stare at it.

Inside the store, a salesperson approached. “Can I help you find something?”

“I’m curious about the crystal figurine in the window,” Paul said.

“Excellent taste! The ballerina is limited edition… only fifty were made worldwide.”

A crystal ballerina figurine on a store display | Source: Midjourney

A crystal ballerina figurine on a store display | Source: Midjourney

After leaving the store, Paul called his friend Miguel, who worked at a glass factory. “Miguel, you mentioned they sometimes need extra hands. Is that offer still good?”

“Sure, buddy. They’re looking for weekend shift workers right now.”

“I’ll take it,” Paul said without hesitation.

***

For the next month, he worked six days a week, putting in hours at the restaurant Monday through Friday and at the factory on Saturdays. The factory work was physically demanding, leaving his hands cramped and his back stiff with pain.

A man showing his greasy hands | Source: Pexels

A man showing his greasy hands | Source: Pexels

Samara noticed his exhaustion. “You should find better work,” she commented one evening. “Lily’s dad says there are always janitorial positions at the hospital. At least they have benefits.”

“I’m fine with my current job, dear,” Paul replied, not revealing his second employment. “The Winter Carnival is coming up, right? Do you want to go?”

“Maybe. Lily’s already got her dress. It cost, like, $550.” Samara studied his reaction. “But I don’t need anything fancy. There’s this dress at the mall for $55 that would work.”

Paul nodded. “We can look into it. I’ve been picking up extra hours, so we might be able to manage it.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Samara’s face, replaced by a tentative smile. “Really? You mean it?”

“Of course. You should experience these things. Your mom would want that.”

A teenage girl with a fragile smile | Source: Pexels

A teenage girl with a fragile smile | Source: Pexels

By the end of the month, Paul had saved just over $400. It was enough for the figurine, and the idea of seeing Samara’s face light up made every ache and overtime shift worth it.

On Saturday, after his factory shift, Paul purchased the crystal ballerina. Watching the salesperson wrap it, he couldn’t stop picturing Samara’s face.

***

She was watching TV when he arrived home and she barely glanced up as he entered.

“Sweetie,” Paul said, his heart pounding. “I have something for you.”

A man holding a gift box | Source: Pexels

A man holding a gift box | Source: Pexels

She finally looked at him, her expression curious but guarded.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed.

With a slight eye roll, Samara complied, holding out her hands. Paul placed the wrapped box in her palms and watched her face carefully.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

“A gift? It’s not my birthday!”

“Go on, honey. Open it!”

Samara peeled the ribbon off, barely glancing at it, and tore open the paper.

Close-up shot of a young girl opening a present | Source: Pexels

Close-up shot of a young girl opening a present | Source: Pexels

She stared at the figurine, her eyebrows knitted with confusion.

“Seriously?” she said, holding it like it might break just from being looked at.

“Do you like it?” Paul asked, his smile faltering. “I saw you looking at it in the store window.”

“You saw me at the store?”

“A few weeks ago. You were standing outside Gadgets & Gizmos.”

“You thought I was looking at THIS? A glass doll? You think I’m five?”

A young lady standing outside a store | Source: Midjourney

A young lady standing outside a store | Source: Midjourney

“It’s a ballerina. Like Mom used to be. Like you were… I thought you…”

“I haven’t danced in years, Dad. What am I supposed to do with this? It’s just going to sit on a shelf collecting dust.”

Paul felt a sharp pang in his chest. “I thought it would be special. Something to remember your mother by. I thought you… liked it.”

“If you want me to remember Mom, show me pictures. Tell me stories. Don’t spend a fortune on some useless decoration.”

A young lady with her arms crossed | Source: Pexels

A young lady with her arms crossed | Source: Pexels

Samara stood abruptly. “You know what I was actually looking at that day? The phone. The one every single person at school has except me.”

Paul blinked, confused. “Phone?”

“Yeah. It was right there next to this stupid ballerina. Eighteen hundred bucks with tax. But sure, let’s blow $390 on a stupid glass doll I didn’t ask for!”

“And this isn’t?” Samara gestured with the crystal piece. “What were you thinking? That I’d put this in my room and suddenly everything would be better? That I’d stop being embarrassed about our apartment, your job, and our old car?”

Expensive mobile phones on display | Source: Pexels

Expensive mobile phones on display | Source: Pexels

“Samara, please—”

But she wasn’t listening. “Do you know what it’s like being the only kid at school whose dad is a busboy? Whose mom is dead? Whose clothes come from discount stores or rich friends’ castoffs?”

“I’m trying my best, sweetie…” Paul said softly, his eyes glassy.

“Well, your best isn’t enough! You should have never had a child if you couldn’t give her a decent life! You’re a living, walking, breathing failure, Dad! You hear me…?”

A frustrated girl holding her head | Source: Pexels

A frustrated girl holding her head | Source: Pexels

And then, in a moment that seemed to unfold in slow motion, Samara hurled the crystal ballerina to the floor. It shattered with a sharp, crystalline sound, glistening fragments scattering across the worn carpet.

Paul stared at the broken pieces, tears welling in his eyes. “Samara… what did you do?”

She stormed to her room, the door slamming shut a second later.

A heartbroken man looking at the floor | Source: Pexels

A heartbroken man looking at the floor | Source: Pexels

Paul stood in the silence she left behind, his eyes fixed on the glinting wreckage. With trembling hands and a heart that felt like it had cracked wide open, he knelt and began gathering the shards.

One sharp edge sliced his finger, drawing a thin line of crimson, but he didn’t flinch. He just kept going.

He dropped the pieces into the plastic bin one by one, each clink sounding louder than the last.

Grayscale shot of glass shards | Source: Pexels

Grayscale shot of glass shards | Source: Pexels

Then, the tears came… loud, heavy, and unstoppable. He sank onto the couch, his eyes fixed on the framed photo of Elizabeth on the shelf.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I tried. I swear I tried. But I failed her. I failed both of you.”

An eerie silence swallowed the room, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock and Paul’s muffled sobs.

After a long moment, he wiped his face with the back of his hand. His eyes were swollen, but there was something steady in them now. He got up, picked his empty wallet off the counter, and stared at it like it held the answer to everything.

He didn’t know how yet… but he was going to get her that phone.

A shattered man staring at the ceiling | Source: Pexels

A shattered man staring at the ceiling | Source: Pexels

For the next three months, Paul worked nearly every day, often taking double shifts. He saw Samara only in passing, with brief exchanges in the morning or late at night. Their conversations were stilted, carefully avoiding any mention of the crystal ballerina incident.

Finally, after 92 days of relentless work, Paul had saved enough for the phone. On a sunny Thursday afternoon, he drove to Gadgets & Gizmos, his heart pounding with anticipation.

The same salesperson helped him. “Back for another special gift?”

“Yes, I want that phone,” Paul said, feeling both pride and nervousness.

A salesman in the store | Source: Pexels

A salesman in the store | Source: Pexels

“Excellent choice! Would you like it in Midnight Black or Stellar Silver?”

“Which is more popular with teenagers?”

“Definitely the Stellar Silver.”

“I’ll take it.”

The phone was wrapped in vibrant blue paper with a silver bow. As Paul left the store, he felt lighter than he had in months. He couldn’t wait to see Samara’s face when she opened this gift.

A blue gift box with a silver bow | Source: Midjourney

A blue gift box with a silver bow | Source: Midjourney

Maybe they’d order pizza to celebrate, or watch a movie together like they used to. Something silly she’d pretend to hate but secretly loved. Maybe she’d hug him without pulling away, and for a moment, she’d be that little girl again who used to chirp, “I love you, Daddy!” every time he brought home her favorite candy.

Maybe… just maybe, she’d be proud of him.

Paul was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the car running the red light until it was too late. He stepped into the crosswalk just as the vehicle barreled through the intersection. There was a screech of tires, a sickening impact… and then darkness.

Aerial view of speeding vehicles on a street | Source: Unsplash

Aerial view of speeding vehicles on a street | Source: Unsplash

Samara was walking to her classroom when her phone buzzed with an unknown number. After ignoring several calls, she finally answered.

“Is this Samara? This is Nurse Jenkins from Westlake Memorial Hospital. I’m calling about your father, Paul.”

Samara stopped walking, her blood turning cold. “My… father?”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident. Your father was hit by a car. We need you to come to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Samara stood frozen in the hallway, her pulse roaring in her ears. For a second, she couldn’t speak or move… just stared at the lockers across from her like they might tell her it wasn’t real.

A young lady holding her phone | Source: Unsplash

A young lady holding her phone | Source: Unsplash

“Wait… what happened? Is he okay?” she asked but the nurse had already hung up.

Samara’s sneakers squeaked against the tile as she burst into the class. Lily looked up in alarm, halfway through a worksheet.

“Lily, I need you. It’s my dad… he’s in the hospital.”

Without asking another question, Lily grabbed her backpack and followed her out.

***

The car ride was a blur. Samara stared straight ahead, knuckles white against her thighs. She didn’t say much, just whispered, “Drive faster,” and wiped her face with her sleeve when she thought Lily wasn’t looking.

A speeding car on the road | Source: Unsplash

A speeding car on the road | Source: Unsplash

At the hospital, Samara rushed to the front desk, her voice already trembling. “My dad… Paul. He was in an accident. Please… can I see him?”

A doctor appeared from the double doors, his expression grave.

“You must be his daughter,” he said, stepping closer.

Samara’s stomach dropped.

A doctor holding a file | Source: Pexels

A doctor holding a file | Source: Pexels

“Samara? I’m Dr. Reese. Let’s sit down.”

“Just tell me if he’s okay.”

“I’m very sorry. Your father sustained severe trauma from the impact. Despite our best efforts, he passed away a few minutes ago.”

The words didn’t make sense. Her father couldn’t be gone. He was invincible, always there, always working… and always trying.

“No. That’s not right. Check again. Please.”

Grayscale shot of a startled girl's eyes | Source: Pexels

Grayscale shot of a startled girl’s eyes | Source: Pexels

“Would you like to see him?”

Samara nodded numbly, allowing herself to be led to a quiet room. Her father lay on a bed, his face peaceful but unnaturally still.

“Dad?” she whispered. “Dad, I’m here.”

No response came. The reality began to sink in, wave after crushing wave of grief and regret.

“Dad?” Samara stepped closer to the hospital bed. “No, no… no. Dad, please… wake up.”

She clutched his hand, cold and still. “Don’t do this to me. Dad? Dad?”

The beeping of machines filled the silence Paul wasn’t breaking.

A man lying still | Source: Pexels

A man lying still | Source: Pexels

A nurse entered quietly, carrying a plastic bag. “These are your father’s personal effects. And this was with him at the time of the accident.” She handed Samara a gift-wrapped package, its blue paper stained with crimson streaks.

Inside was a box for the phone… the exact model she had coveted for months. Attached to it was a handwritten note:

“Sweetheart,

I know you’re ashamed to be my daughter, but I’ve always been proud to be your father. Hope this makes you happy & hope you forgive me… for everything. I’m trying. But I need some time to be able to get back on my feet again. But I promise to make you happy… even if it would cost my life.

Love, Dad.”

A primal scream tore from Samara’s throat. “He worked extra shifts,” she gasped between sobs. “He was working himself to death for this stupid phone. For me.”

A girl crying | Source: Pexels

A girl crying | Source: Pexels

In the days that followed, Samara moved through the funeral arrangements in a fog of grief. The restaurant staff and glass factory workers attended the service, sharing stories of Paul’s dedication.

“Your dad talked about you all the time,” Miguel told her. “Every shift, he’d say how this extra money was going to make his girl happy.”

After the funeral, Samara returned to the empty apartment. In the kitchen trash, she spotted a familiar glint… fragments of the crystal ballerina. With painstaking care, she collected every piece she could find.

A lonely young lady sitting on the floor in her house | Source: Pexels

A lonely young lady sitting on the floor in her house | Source: Pexels

Over the next few days, she worked meticulously with super glue, piecing the ballerina back together. It was imperfect. The cracks were visible and some tiny pieces were missing. But there was beauty in its brokenness… a reminder of what had been lost and could never be fully restored.

Samara placed the repaired ballerina on her bedside table, next to a framed photo of her parents.

The new phone remained in its box, untouched in her desk drawer. She couldn’t bear to use it, knowing the cost had been so much higher than dollars and cents.

Close-up shot of a phone in a box | Source: Unsplash

Close-up shot of a phone in a box | Source: Unsplash

That night, as the apartment sat quiet, Samara opened her old phone and typed a message to her dad’s number.

“I’m proud of you, Dad.”

She hit send, knowing it would go nowhere. But seeing his name light up on the screen one last time… it felt like he was still with her, if only for a moment.

A girl using her phone | Source: Pexels

A girl using her phone | Source: Pexels

Casei-me com meu amigo de infância – Ele me contou o segredo de sua família na noite de núpcias e isso quase arruinou minha vida

Depois de me casar com meu amor de infância, pensei que nosso felizes para sempre tinha finalmente começado. Isso foi até que ele me entregou um caderno cheio de segredos de sua mãe.

Eu não esperava encontrar Michael naquela manhã. Eu estava apenas pegando meu café de sempre, andando pela Main Street em nossa antiga cidade natal, quando o avistei. Alto, familiar, com um toque de cinza no cabelo, ele estava parado do lado de fora da cafeteria que costumávamos ir depois da escola.

Um homem com um livro em um café | Fonte: Pexels

Um homem com um livro em um café | Fonte: Pexels

“Michael?”, gritei, quase incrédula.

Ele se virou e, por um segundo, apenas olhou fixamente. Então, um grande sorriso se abriu em seu rosto. “É você mesmo?”, ele disse, sua voz calorosa, exatamente como eu me lembrava. “Nunca pensei que veria você por aqui de novo!”

“O mesmo aqui!” Eu ri. “Quais são as chances?”

Um casal de mãos dadas em um encontro | Fonte: Pexels

Um casal de mãos dadas em um encontro | Fonte: Pexels

Decidimos tomar um café juntos, como nos velhos tempos. Dentro da loja, tudo parecia como era naquela época. Os balcões de madeira antigos e o cheiro de doces frescos. Era quase como se o tempo tivesse voltado.

Conversamos por horas naquele dia, colocando tudo em dia e nada. Rimos de histórias antigas, como a vez em que nos perdemos em uma caminhada ou como deixávamos bilhetes um para o outro na aula de história. As horas passaram.

Um casal em um encontro | Fonte: Midjourney

Um casal em um encontro | Fonte: Midjourney

O café virou almoço, o almoço virou longas caminhadas e, antes que percebêssemos, estávamos ligando um para o outro todos os dias. Havia algo tão fácil, tão natural em estar perto dele.

Poucos meses depois, Michael me pediu em casamento. Foi simples, só ele e eu, sentados à beira do lago uma noite.

“Não quero perder mais tempo”, ele disse, sua voz firme, mas cheia de emoção. “Eu te amo. Eu sempre te amei. Você quer se casar comigo?”

Uma proposta de casamento | Fonte: Pexels

Uma proposta de casamento | Fonte: Pexels

Não hesitei por um segundo. “Sim”, sussurrei, com lágrimas nos olhos. Dois meses depois, nos casamos.

Depois do casamento, fomos de carro até a casa da família dele, onde passamos muitas tardes quando crianças. A casa não tinha mudado nada. Até o papel de parede do corredor era o mesmo, e o velho carvalho no quintal ainda estava lá.

Uma pequena casa | Fonte: Pexels

Uma pequena casa | Fonte: Pexels

Mais tarde naquela noite, depois de me refrescar, voltei e encontrei Michael sentado na beirada da cama, parecendo… diferente. Seu sorriso fácil de sempre tinha sumido. Ele estava segurando um pequeno e surrado caderno nas mãos.

“Michael?”, perguntei, sentando-me ao lado dele. “Está tudo bem?”

Um homem nervoso | Fonte: Pexels

Um homem nervoso | Fonte: Pexels

Ele não olhou para mim imediatamente. Seus olhos estavam no caderno, dedos traçando a borda. “Tem… algo que preciso te contar.”

O tom de sua voz me deu um arrepio na espinha. “O que foi?”

Ele respirou fundo, finalmente encontrando meu olhar. “Este caderno é da minha mãe”, ele disse calmamente. “Ela mantinha anotações… sobre nossa família. Sobre algo que ela achava importante.”

Um caderno desgastado | Fonte: Pexels

Um caderno desgastado | Fonte: Pexels

“Ok…” eu disse lentamente, sem entender muito bem.

Ele me entregou, e eu o abri. Páginas e páginas de uma caligrafia caprichada e cheia de voltas preenchiam cada página. “Minha família tem essa… crença”, ele começou. “Uma maldição, na verdade. Parece ridículo, eu sei, mas eles acreditam que é real.”

“Uma maldição?”, perguntei, com as sobrancelhas levantadas, tentando esconder meu ceticismo.

Uma mulher conversando com o marido | Fonte: Midjourney

Uma mulher conversando com o marido | Fonte: Midjourney

Ele assentiu. “Minha mãe diz que qualquer mulher que se case com alguém da família… é amaldiçoada com má sorte. Tragédia. Dor. Acontece há gerações, ou assim ela diz.”

Eu quase ri, mas me contive quando vi a preocupação em seus olhos. “Michael, você realmente não acredita nisso, acredita?”

Um homem preocupado | Fonte: Pexels

Um homem preocupado | Fonte: Pexels

Ele passou a mão pelos cabelos, parecendo dividido. “Não sei. Sempre disse a mim mesmo que é apenas uma velha superstição de família. Mas… eu vi coisas, sabe? O casamento do meu pai com a minha mãe não foi exatamente tranquilo. Meu tio — bem, digamos que as coisas acabaram mal para ele também.”

Peguei a mão dele, dando-lhe um aperto reconfortante. “Olha, isso não significa nada. Casamentos são difíceis para muitas pessoas.”

Mulher segurando a mão de um homem | Fonte: Pexels

Mulher segurando a mão de um homem | Fonte: Pexels

Ele deu um sorriso fraco, mas seus olhos ainda pareciam preocupados. “Talvez você esteja certo”, ele disse, embora não parecesse convencido.

Uma semana após o casamento, pequenos infortúnios começaram a se acumular. Primeiro, foi um pneu furado logo antes de partirmos para a lua de mel, nos deixando sem poder dirigir para lugar nenhum.

“Só azar”, eu disse a ele, forçando uma risada.

Um pneu furado | Fonte: Pexels

Um pneu furado | Fonte: Pexels

De volta para casa, as coisas tomaram um rumo estranho. O negócio que passei anos construindo começou a perder clientes. Uma série de avaliações ruins apareceu online, algumas de pessoas com quem eu nunca tinha trabalhado. Tentei de tudo para consertar, mas nada parecia ajudar. Parecia que alguém tinha amaldiçoado meu trabalho.

Então, alguém invadiu nossa casa. Nada importante ou valioso foi roubado, mas o dano psicológico foi feito.

Um homem arrombando uma fechadura | Fonte: Freepik

Um homem arrombando uma fechadura | Fonte: Freepik

Michael também notou. “Você acha que essa… essa maldição pode ser real?”, ele perguntou uma noite, com a voz baixa.

“Claro que não”, respondi rapidamente, embora estivesse começando a duvidar de mim mesmo. “Tem que haver uma explicação para tudo isso. Talvez seja só… não sei… uma fase.”

O ponto de virada veio pouco antes do Dia de Ação de Graças. A mãe de Michael insistiu que passássemos o feriado em nossa casa. Conversamos ao telefone sobre o menu, e ela parecia de bom humor.

Uma mulher falando ao telefone | Fonte: Pexels

Uma mulher falando ao telefone | Fonte: Pexels

Depois da ligação, coloquei meu telefone no sofá e peguei um livro, me acomodando para ler. Mas, quando virei a página, ouvi vozes. O telefone ainda estava conectado.

“Você realmente acha que essa maldição sem sentido ainda funciona?”, perguntou o pai de Michael, parecendo exasperado.

Sem pensar, apertei imediatamente o botão de gravação.

Uma mulher séria ao telefone | Fonte: Pexels

Uma mulher séria ao telefone | Fonte: Pexels

Ela riu. “Funciona sempre. Olhe para ela! O negócio dela já está em dificuldades, e Michael está tão envolvido em preocupações que mal consegue pensar direito. E eu vou acabar com isso quando eu estragar o peru dela.”

“Chega, Marianne”, ele respondeu. “Você já assustou mulheres boas o suficiente dos nossos filhos.”

“Se eles não forem adequados para meus meninos, farei o que for preciso”, ela disse, seu tom frio. “Eu sei o que é melhor para eles.”

Casal maduro conversando | Fonte: Pexels

Casal maduro conversando | Fonte: Pexels

Meu estômago revirou. Encerrei a ligação, me sentindo entorpecida, repetindo suas palavras em minha mente. Todas aquelas coisas estranhas — o pneu furado, as críticas ruins — eram ela que estava fazendo. Não havia maldição. Era tudo mentira, um truque distorcido para controlar seus filhos e suas esposas.

Naquela noite, sentei-me em frente a Michael, segurando meu telefone com mãos trêmulas. “Michael”, comecei, “tem algo que preciso que você ouça.”

Uma mulher conversando com o marido | Fonte: Freepik

Uma mulher conversando com o marido | Fonte: Freepik

Ele olhou para mim, com as sobrancelhas franzidas em preocupação. “O que há de errado?”

Apertei o play e a voz da mãe dele encheu a sala.

Michael parecia atordoado, seus olhos disparando do telefone para mim enquanto ele tentava processar o que tinha ouvido. “Isso… isso tem que ser um engano”, ele gaguejou, a descrença espessa em sua voz. “Ela não iria… minha mãe nunca iria—”

Um homem chocado olhando para seu telefone | Fonte: Pexels

Um homem chocado olhando para seu telefone | Fonte: Pexels

Peguei a mão dele. “Michael, eu ouvi tudo. Ela está tentando nos separar.”

Finalmente, ele olhou para mim, seu rosto estava determinado. “Preciso ouvir isso dela. Preciso ouvir a verdade, dos dois.”

Chegamos na casa dos pais dele tarde da noite. O pai de Michael abriu a porta, parecendo surpreso em nos ver. “Michael, está tudo bem?”

Um homem surpreso | Fonte: Pexels

Um homem surpreso | Fonte: Pexels

Michael passou por ele, seu rosto pálido de raiva. “Onde está a mamãe?”

O rosto do pai caiu, e ele deu um passo para trás. “Michael, por favor, acalme-se.”

“Estou calmo”, ele disse, sua voz tensa. “Mas preciso de respostas, pai.”

Marianne pareceu surpresa, seus olhos se voltando rapidamente para o marido, que não a encarava. “Do que você está falando?”

Uma idosa surpresa | Fonte: Pexels

Uma idosa surpresa | Fonte: Pexels

Michael levantou meu telefone. “Eu ouvi você, mãe. Você e papai, falando sobre a maldição. Falando sobre como você tem… interferido. Assustando as mulheres, fazendo-as pensar que são amaldiçoadas.”

Seu rosto passou de confusão fingida para uma expressão dura e calculista. “Michael, não sei o que você acha que ouviu, mas—”

“Você sabe o que disse, Marianne,” seu pai interrompeu calmamente, dando um passo à frente. “Não adianta negar.”

Um homem idoso zangado | Fonte: Pexels

Um homem idoso zangado | Fonte: Pexels

Ela se virou para ele, seus olhos brilhando. “Não ouse!”

“Não ouso?” Seu pai balançou a cabeça, parecendo cansado e desgastado. “Fiquei de boca fechada por anos. Vi você perseguir todas as mulheres que Michael ou seus irmãos já amaram. Vi você mentir, sabotar, brincar com a vida das pessoas só porque você achava que sabia o que era melhor. Isso já durou tempo demais.”

Um casal de idosos discutindo | Fonte: Midjourney

Um casal de idosos discutindo | Fonte: Midjourney

O rosto de Michael se enrugou enquanto ele olhava do pai para a mãe. “Então é verdade?” ele sussurrou. “Tudo isso?”

Lágrimas começaram a rolar pelo seu rosto. “Eu fiz isso porque eu te amo, Michael.”

Ele deu um passo para trás, balançando a cabeça. “Isso não é amor. Isso é controle.”

Um silêncio pesado caiu sobre a sala. Seu pai falou em seguida, sua voz cansada. “Michael, eu tentei argumentar com ela, acredite em mim. Mas ela… ela acredita que está fazendo a coisa certa.”

Um homem idoso frustrado | Fonte: Pexels

Um homem idoso frustrado | Fonte: Pexels

Michael virou-se para o pai, sua voz cheia de mágoa. “E você deixou ela fazer isso? Todos esses anos?”

O pai dele olhou para baixo. “Eu estava com medo de perder minha família. Pensei que talvez um dia ela parasse. Que você seria forte o suficiente para… se libertar disso.”

Michael ficou em silêncio. Pegando minha mão, ele me levou até a porta. Lá fora, ele olhou para as estrelas, seus ombros caídos em derrota. Ele olhou para mim, sua voz quase um sussurro. “Eu sinto muito. Por tudo isso.”

Um homem triste olhando para o céu | Fonte: Pexels

Um homem triste olhando para o céu | Fonte: Pexels

Apertei sua mão. “Estamos livres agora, Michael. É tudo o que importa.”

Mas enquanto caminhávamos para o carro, senti o peso do passado, a tristeza de uma família quebrada por segredos e as tentativas equivocadas de amor de uma mãe. O coração de Michael levaria tempo para se curar, mas estávamos deixando a maldição e sua mãe para trás.

De mãos dadas | Fonte: Pexels

De mãos dadas | Fonte: Pexels

Gostou desta história? Considere conferir esta : Colleen acreditava que sabia tudo sobre seu marido até que acidentalmente ouviu sua sessão de terapia. A confissão surpreendente de Michael revelou seus segredos mais obscuros, destruindo seu casamento de 12 anos e deixando Colleen para juntar os pedaços quebrados de sua família…

Este trabalho é inspirado em eventos e pessoas reais, mas foi ficcionalizado para fins criativos. Nomes, personagens e detalhes foram alterados para proteger a privacidade e melhorar a narrativa. Qualquer semelhança com pessoas reais, vivas ou mortas, ou eventos reais é mera coincidência e não intencional do autor.

O autor e a editora não fazem nenhuma reivindicação quanto à precisão dos eventos ou à representação dos personagens e não são responsáveis ​​por nenhuma interpretação errônea. Esta história é fornecida “como está”, e quaisquer opiniões expressas são as dos personagens e não refletem as opiniões do autor ou da editora.

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