I looked at him. “He wasn’t your father.”

For a split second, Vanessa’s smile faltered. Then she shoved a box into my arms. Inside were a few clothes, my college letter, and an old photo of my dad lifting me onto his shoulders.

“You have ten minutes,” she said. “After that, I call security.”

“This is my home.”

She stepped closer, her voice low. “No. It never was.”

Something inside me broke—but I didn’t show it.

My father’s voice echoed in my mind: Never argue when you’re angry. You’ll miss what matters.