My Future Stepmom Told Me to Stop E///ting So Boys Would Like Me—Then She Praised Me for St///rving… And a Week Later the P0lice Were at Our Door
I have the opposite of daddy issues.
My father is such a genuinely good man that he accidentally raised me to believe every man in the world was built the same way.
When I was little and he only had enough change in his pocket for one of us to get ice cream, he always let me have it.
He’d pretend he wasn’t hungry, make a joke about “saving room,” and watch me like my happiness mattered more than his.
When I cried over a bad report card or dumb friend drama, he didn’t brush it off.
He would literally take the day off work, drive me to my favorite diner, and order practically every dessert on the menu like sugar could rebuild a broken heart.
He was the kind of father who remembered the small things, the kind of man who made you feel safe just by being in the room.
And because he loved me that way, he didn’t date anyone seriously until I was sixteen, because he never wanted me confused about who my mom was.
So when he finally started seeing someone new, I was happy for him in a way that surprised even me.
I wanted him to laugh again, to have someone to talk to in the evenings, to stop carrying the whole world alone just because he could.
In the first month of dating her, he came home different.
He’d walk through the door with an extra big smile on his face, like the air around him had gotten lighter.
She bought him flowers once, and he held them like they were something rare.
My father, who never expected anyone to take care of him, looked almost stunned by the idea.
He was practically beaming, and I told myself that meant she must be a good person.
It wasn’t until I finished high school that he finally said, “I think it’s time you meet her,” like he’d been waiting for the right moment to introduce two important parts of his life.
Her name was Catherine.
When she walked into our kitchen for the first time, she spoke softly, smiled politely, and carried herself like the kind of woman any man other than my father would take advantage of.
She looked delicate in a way that made people instinctively step around her instead of toward her.
I remember thinking she seemed kind, almost shy, the sort of person who’d apologize for taking up space.
We sat at the kitchen table, and my dad served two beautiful plates of homemade pizza like he was trying to impress her and reassure me at the same time.
The room smelled like melted cheese and warm bread, and for a few minutes it felt normal—almost sweet.
Then my dad got up to go to the bathroom.
The second the door closed behind him, the temperature in the room changed.
Catherine reached across the table and slid three of my slices back onto the serving plate.
She did it casually, like she was straightening napkins, like she wasn’t taking something away from me.
“Your metabolism isn’t going to last forever,” she said, still smiling, still soft.
“You’ll thank me when you’re older.”
I just stared at her.
My brain couldn’t find the right response fast enough because nothing about her voice matched the sharpness of what she’d done.
I didn’t even get a chance to speak before my dad came back.
Catherine folded her hands in her lap and looked at him like the moment had never happened.
And when my dad returned, neither of us mentioned it.
I told myself I’d bring it up as soon as she left, that I’d tell him privately so he could handle it gently, the way he always handled things.
But the second the front door closed behind her, my father’s joy spilled into the room like sunlight.
He started singing her praises like he’d been holding them back.
“Isn’t she just the best?” he said, eyes bright.
“I’m thinking of proposing to her soon. What do you think, darling?”
His happiness was practically lighting up the entire kitchen.
I couldn’t be the one to blow it out in his face.
So I swallowed everything and said, “Yep. She’s great.”
I didn’t even recognize my own voice when I said it.
A few days later, he woke me up with a surprise.
He sat on the edge of my bed holding a glossy leaflet like he was a teenager with concert tickets.
“Honey,” he said, grinning, “there’s a huge discount for this resort in Miami.”
He tapped the picture of turquoise water like it was a promise.
“I was thinking the three of us go,” he said, “you, me, and Catherine.”
And something cold slid into my stomach before I could stop it.
A part of me wanted to yell no.
A part of me wanted to say, You barely know her, and I don’t trust what she turns into when you’re not looking.
But my father looked so excited, so hopeful, that I smiled instead.
“Of course,” I said, bright and fake. “I’m down.”
He booked it right there on his phone, like he was afraid if he waited too long, the happiness might evaporate.
I lay back against my pillow afterward and stared at the ceiling, trying to convince myself I was overreacting.
I decided to make the most of it.
I packed my summer clothes like I was packing confidence—tube tops, linen pants, shorts, everything I’d wear if I felt completely free in my own body.
When we landed in Miami, the sunlight hit me like a drug.
The heat sank into my bones, and for a minute I actually felt lighter, like maybe the ocean air could wash off whatever tension had been collecting in my chest.
At the resort, everything was bright and expensive-looking.
Palm trees, white umbrellas, people laughing too loudly, and music playing like the world had never been cruel to anyone.
Catherine and I lay on sunbeds while my dad went to grab drinks.
I tried to relax, tried to let the sound of waves soften my thoughts.
And then I felt it.
A pinch on my upper arm—quick, invasive, like a test.
Catherine’s fingers pressed into my skin and she looked at me with disgust that didn’t match her soft voice at all.
“Darling,” she said, lips curling slightly, “you look like a beluga whale.”
I froze, my whole body going hot in a way that had nothing to do with the sun.
Before I could even process what she’d said, she snatched my tray of food and tossed it into the trash like it was garbage.
“If you want boys to like you,” she said, leaning closer as if she was sharing a helpful secret, “you can’t just be a greedy w///e.”
The word hit me like a slap, even censored in my mind, even softened by her polite tone.
My face flushed and my throat tightened.
I suddenly became painfully aware of every inch of my body, like it was too loud, too visible, too wrong.
Was I really that… big?
The thought wrapped around my ribs and squeezed until breathing felt like something I had to earn.
I had this overwhelming urge to hide, to fold myself into something smaller so the world wouldn’t have to look at me.
And Catherine noticed, because she always noticed.
She handed me a towel.
“Cover up,” she said, like she was doing me a favor.
I don’t even recognize the girl I became that weekend, but I know how it happened.
I was eighteen, impressionable in the way people pretend girls aren’t, and I spent the rest of the trip either f///sting or pretending to e///t in front of my dad so he wouldn’t worry.
Catherine praised me for it.
She’d glance at my plate, see how little was missing, and smile like she was proud of training a pet.
“Good girl,” she’d say softly.
“Soon you’ll look like me.”
By the time we flew home, something in my brain had shifted.
I couldn’t look at food without hearing her voice, and I couldn’t look in the mirror without feeling like it was judging me.
Even after the trip, I kept undere///ting like it was discipline, like it was proof I could control something in my life.
And a few weeks later, I stood in front of the mirror and didn’t like what I saw—not because I looked “better,” but because I looked wrong in a way that scared me.
My face had drained of color.
My hair was coming out more than it should, and standing up too fast made the room tilt like the floor was trying to throw me off.
I told myself it was fine.
I told myself it was just stress, just adjusting, just being “healthier,” because that’s what Catherine called it when she watched me push food around on my plate.
Then one morning, I was doing my daily body check—pinching, measuring, staring like my reflection owed me an explanation.
And my dad walked in.
He stopped so hard it was like he ran into an invisible wall.
“Honey,” he said, voice cracking, “what the f did you do?”
His eyes filled instantly, the way they did when I was little and scraped my knees and he felt powerless.
“Have you not been e///ting?” he asked, stepping toward me like he was afraid I’d vanish. “You look so p///le, baby.”
In that moment I was so h///ngry I could barely think about anything else.
The truth didn’t even feel like a choice anymore; it just spilled out because my body was too tired to hold secrets.
“Catherine told me that I should lose weight,” I said, casually, like I was reporting the weather.
I didn’t understand the bomb I’d just dropped into the room.
My dad’s face changed in one second.
“What?” he said, and the word came out low and sharp, like something inside him snapped into place.
His voice turned into something I had never heard from him before.
Not loud, not theatrical—something colder, something scarier, an anger so controlled it made the air feel dangerous.
He didn’t say another word.
He just scooped me up like I was still six years old and carried me to the kitchen.
He cooked my favorite meal, homemade chicken Alfredo, hands steady, jaw clenched, eyes too focused.
And as I ate, the warmth of real food felt like waking up from a nightmare I hadn’t realized I was living in.
I realized how d///mb I’d been to punish my body just because someone cruel wanted me smaller.
I swore to myself right there, twirling pasta with shaking fingers, that I would never do it again.
Suddenly, my dad…
Continue in C0mment 👇👇
‘s voice erupted through the walls. This was the first time I had heard him raise his voice at anyone. When he returned, his face was bright red with anger, and I discovered Catherine was the source of his fury. “We broke up,” he said. “Wait, Dad. I don’t think she meant to hurt me.
It’s not your fault,” he interrupted my guilty explanation. “She’s an adult and she should have known better.” He then sat beside me and we spent the rest of the day watching Vampire Diaries, my comfort show together. So, I was right beside him when he got the text. It was a photo from Catherine, an ultrasound. It’s yours and we can either get back together or you can say goodbye to your future baby.
The message read, the words like a slap across both our faces. I stared at the message, my heart pounding against my ribs so hard I thought it might break through. I quickly replied, asking Tara, a mutual friend who’d introduced them what she meant by done this before, a cryptic message she’d sent me earlier that day. Her response came almost immediately, my phone buzzing in my sweaty palm.
Catherine faked a pregnancy 2 years ago with her ex, Declan. She even bought fake ultrasound photos online. When he finally demanded she see a doctor with him, she staged a miscarriage. By then, she’d already moved into his house and isolated him from everyone. My hands trembled as I typed back, “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” She sent screenshots of old conversations between her and Catherine, discussing the plan to trap Declan in sickening detail.
There were even photos of Catherine with a clearly fake baby bump, the kind you could buy online, the silicone edge visible if you looked closely enough. “She’s dangerous,” Tara wrote, the words sending a chill down my spine. “She isolates people and uses them. When I confronted her about what she did to Declan, she spread rumors that destroyed my reputation.
I had to move to a different city. I thanked her and promised to be careful. Relief and dread battling within me. This was the proof I needed, but I had to approach Dad carefully. He was already so deep under Catherine’s spell that he might not believe me. Might think I was just trying to sabotage his chance at happiness.
That evening, Dad dropped another bombshell, his voice carefully neutral as he stirred a pot of pasta that neither of us really wanted. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes, focusing instead on the swirling water. Catherine and I are getting a place together for the baby. My stomach dropped. A physical sensation like being in an elevator that suddenly plummets.
What? When? We found an apartment closer to her doctor. I’m moving in next weekend. He finally looked at me. Guilt written across his features. You can stay here, of course. I’ll still pay the bills and everything. Dad, you can’t do this. You barely know her. I pleaded, my voice rising with desperation, his face hardened, the softness I was used to replaced by something stubborn and unfamiliar.
I know her well enough. She’s carrying my child, but what if she’s not? I pulled out my phone, my fingers fumbling with the screen. I need to show you something. Just then, the doorbell rang, the sound slicing through our conversation. Dad went to answer it, his shoulders set in a way that told me the discussion wasn’t over.
There stood Catherine, holding a casserole dish and wearing a loose- fitting dress that highlighted a small bump at her midsection, artfully positioned to look like a growing pregnancy. Surprise, she chirped, her voice honey again. I made your favorite, Larry. Chicken pot pie. Dad’s face lit up as he ushered her in, the tension in his body melting away at the sight of her.
I felt sick watching him fawn over her, taking the dish and pulling out her chair at our table. Our family table where mom used to sit. I thought we could have a nice family dinner,” Catherine said, her eyes flicking to me with barely concealed disdain. A snake sizing up its prey. Throughout dinner, Catherine dominated the conversation, talking about nursery colors and baby names, her hands constantly cradling her supposed bump.
Dad hung on her every word while I pushed food around my plate, the pot pie tasting like ashes in my mouth. When I tried to bring up anything else, college plans, a movie I wanted to see, Catherine would smoothly redirect the conversation back to the baby. her voice rising slightly to drown mine out. After dinner, I went to grab my phone to show Dad the messages from Tara, my heart racing with the thought that this might be my chance to break her spell, but it wasn’t where I’d left it on the coffee table. I searched everywhere, panic
rising with each empty spot before finally finding it on the kitchen counter, completely reset to factory settings, the evidence gone. “Oh, I found your phone in the bathroom,” Catherine said innocently when I confronted her, her eyes wide with practiced concern. “It fell in the sink and got wet, so I tried to dry it out.
I guess it must have reset itself.” Dad frowned at me, his brow furrowed with disappointment. Catherine was just trying to help. You should be more careful with your things. I stared at him in disbelief. A stranger wearing my father’s face. The man who once took a day off work because I was sad about a bad grade was now scolding me for something I didn’t do.
Choosing to believe this woman he barely knew over his own daughter. That night, I messaged Tara again from my laptop, explaining what had happened. The words pouring out between silent tears. She wasn’t surprised. “Classic Catherine move,” she wrote back immediately. She did the same thing to Declan’s sister when she tried to warn him.
The next few weeks were a nightmare straight from the depths of hell. Dad spent most of his time with Catherine, coming home only to grab clothes or check on me. His presence in our house becoming as rare as his genuine smiles. When he was home, he was distracted and irritable, checking his phone constantly for messages from her. Catherine had convinced him I was acting out because I was jealous of the baby, turning my legitimate concerns into childish tantrums in his eyes.
The final betrayal came when I overheard dad on the phone with Aunt Lisa, his voice low as he paced in the backyard. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but could she stay with you until things settle down with the baby?” A pause as Aunt Lisa presumably responded. It’s just temporary until Catherine and I get into a routine with the newborn.
He was actually going through with it, shipping me off so Catherine could have him all to herself, erasing me from the picture like I was an inconvenience rather than his daughter. I decided I needed more evidence, something so compelling that even Dad in his besided state couldn’t ignore it.
If dad wouldn’t believe me, maybe he’d believe his best friend, Brian, who’d known him since college and had been like an uncle to me my whole life. I reached out to Brian and explained everything, including Terara’s messages and what had happened to my phone. He was skeptical, but agreed to look into Catherine’s past. his protective instincts kicking in despite his doubts.
Two weeks later, Brian called with news, his voice grim on the other end of the line. “You were right,” he said without preamble. “I have a buddy who works in records at Memorial Hospital. Catherine has never been registered as a pregnant patient there, despite telling your dad she has regular appointments.” “That’s not all,” he continued as I sank onto my bed, relief washing over me.
“My wife’s cousin works at the baby store in the mall. She remembers Catherine coming in months ago before she even met your dad, talking about being pregnant. She was buying those fake silicone bumps that actresses use in movies. Relief flooded through me like a substance, making me lightheaded. Finally, someone believed me.
Brian agreed to talk to dad, but warned me it might not go well. Your dad’s always been stubborn when his mind is made up, and he really wants this baby to be real. The next day, I came home from my part-time job to find dad sitting at the kitchen table, looking shell shocked, his face ashen, and his eyes vacant.
Brian sat across from him, a folder of printouts between them, evidence laid out like a prosecutor’s case. “Tell her what you told me,” Brian urged gently. “Dad looked up at me, his eyes red rimmed and hollow.” Catherine’s been lying, he said horarssely, the words seeming to physically pain him. The baby, it can’t be mine.
The timing doesn’t work. I wanted to scream. I told you so. The vindication burning in my throat, but the broken look on his face stopped me. Instead, I sat beside him and took his hand, feeling how cold his fingers were despite the warm kitchen. I’m so sorry, Dad. He squeezed my hand, his grip desperate.
I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t listen to you. I let her come between us. Brian cleared his throat, his normally jovial face serious. There’s more. Catherine has a history of this behavior. She’s done this to at least two other men that I could find. One even took her to court over it.
Dad’s phone buzzed with a text, the sound making him flinch. Catherine, where are you? We’re supposed to look at cribs today. I found the perfect one for little baby James. Dad turned off his phone with a decisive click and pushed it away like it was contaminated. I need to end this in person. No, I said firmly, surprising myself with the authority in my voice.
That’s what she wants to manipulate you face to face. You need to get a lawyer and handle this properly. Brian nodded, his expression grim. My sister’s a family lawyer. She can help you draft a statement demanding a paternity test and cutting off contact until it’s done. Dad agreed, but I could see the conflict in his eyes.
The way his gaze kept drifting to his silent phone. Despite everything, part of him still believed or wanted to believe that Catherine was carrying his child, that the family he’d been dreaming of wasn’t just another one of her elaborate lies. The next morning, I woke to the sound of voices downstairs, the cadence of argument rising through the floorboards.
Dad was supposed to be at work, so I crept to the stairwell to listen, my heart racing. My blood ran cold when I heard Catherine’s voice. Hi, and plaintiff. You’re being ridiculous, Larry. Of course, it’s your baby. Who else’s would it be? Her voice had that practiced quiver that I’d come to recognize as fake.
The dates don’t add up, Catherine. You were posting about being pregnant before we even met. I’ve seen the screenshots. Dad’s voice was steady but strained, like he was holding himself together through sheer will. What are you talking about? Who’s been filling your head with these lies? It’s your daughter, isn’t it? She’s always been jealous of us.
She can’t stand to see you happy with someone else. I held my breath, my nails digging into my palms, praying dad wouldn’t fall for it again. I want a paternity test, he said firmly, the words clear and uncompromising. Catherine’s voice turned cold. the sweet facade dropping away like a mask. So you don’t trust me after everything we’ve been through.
It’s not about trust. It’s about facts. Facts? She spat. Venom replacing the honey. Here’s a fact. If you push this, I’ll make sure you never see this baby. I’ll tell everyone you abandoned us. Your boss, your friends, everyone will know what kind of man you really are. I’d heard enough. Rage propelling me down the stairs.
I marched into the living room, phone in hand, recording app running, capturing every word. Get out of our house, I said, my voice steadier than I felt, adrenaline making my limbs tingle. Catherine’s eyes narrowed, her gaze sliding over me with contempt. This is between your father and me. Adult business that doesn’t concern you.
She emphasized adult as if I were a child, not an 18-year-old woman. It became my business when you told me I looked like a beluga whale and made me stop eating. I shot back, the words bursting out of me. Dad stepped between us, his body a shield. Catherine, I think you should leave.
Fine, she snapped, grabbing her designer purse from the couch. But this isn’t over. You’ll regret this, both of you. The threat hung in the air as she stalked out, the door slamming behind her hard enough to rattle the family photos on the wall. After she left, Dad collapsed onto the couch, head in his hands, his body suddenly looking older.
“Warn! “I’ve been such a fool,” he whispered, the words muffled by his palms. “It’s not your fault,” I said, sitting beside him, the couch cushion dipping under our combined weight. “She’s manipulative. She knew exactly what to say to get to you.” He looked up at me, his eyes filled with remorse that broke my heart.
“But I should have trusted you. I’m your father. I’m supposed to protect you, not.” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. The weight of his perceived failure too heavy to voice. “Well get through this,” I promised. Meaning every word together. For a few days, things were quiet. Too quiet, like the stillness before a hurricane hits.
Dad formally requested a paternity test through his lawyer, and Catherine responded with a barrage of texts, alternating between tearful pleas and vicious threats. Dad didn’t respond to any of them, following his lawyer’s advice to maintain complete silence. Then the social media attack started, a digital assault that caught us off guard.
Catherine posted tearful videos claiming dad had abandoned her and their unborn child. Her makeup artfully smudged to suggest hours of crying. She created a fundraiser for single mothers betrayed by their partners with her story featured prominently painting herself as the victim of a heartless man. People we knew started commenting, some taking her side without question, others confused and asking dad what was going on.
Dad refused to engage, following his lawyer’s advice to stay silent until the legal process was complete. But I could see how much it was hurting him. The way he’d flinch when his phone buzzed with another notification. The worst part was when Catherine started showing up at my college campus. A stalking campaign that left me constantly looking over my shoulder.
I’d see her watching me from her car in the parking lot, or she’d accidentally bump into me in the cafeteria, her body now sporting a more pronounced bump that I knew was fake. “Your dad will come around,” she’d say with a cold smile that never reached her eyes. “Men always do when a baby’s involved, and when he does, you’ll be out of the picture for good.
” I started documenting every encounter, every threat, my phone becoming my weapon, always ready to record. I wasn’t going to let her get away with this. Wasn’t going to let her destroy my father or push me out of my own family. One evening, Dad and I were having dinner, a quiet meal of takeout Chinese that neither of us was really tasting.
When the doorbell rang, the sound making us both freeze midbite. It was Catherine looking distraught, mascara streaking down her face in artistic rivers, her hair deliberately must. “Please, Larry, I need to talk to you,” she sobbed, her voice breaking perfectly. “I’m having complications with the baby.
The doctor says I need to reduce stress.” Dad hesitated, his kind nature waring with his newfound caution, his hand gripping the doorframe. “Catherine, any communication needs to go through my lawyer. You know that.” “Screw your lawyer,” she cried, her voice rising dramatically. This is about our child. I stepped forward, unable to stay silent in the face of such obvious manipulation.
If you’re having complications, you should be at the hospital, not here harassing us. Catherine’s eyes flashed with hatred, the mask slipping for a moment to reveal the venom beneath. You’ve poisoned him against me, you little [ __ ] You couldn’t stand to see him happy with someone else. That’s enough, Dad said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. You need to leave.
Fine, she hissed, her face contorting with rage. But remember this moment when you’re explaining to your child why you weren’t there. The guilt trip hung in the air like poison gas. After she left, Dad called his lawyer to report the incident, his voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hands. The next day, I received a message request on Instagram from an account I didn’t recognize, the notification making my stomach clench.
It was a photo of me walking to class, clearly taken without my knowledge from behind a tree, with the caption, “Accidents happen to girls who don’t mind their own business.” The threat was unmistakable, sending ice through my veins. I showed dad, who immediately called the police, his face white with fury.
They took a report, but said there wasn’t much they could do without more direct evidence of a threat. They suggested I be more aware of my surroundings and consider changing my routines. Advice that did nothing to make me feel safer. That night, Dad and I had a serious talk, sitting at the kitchen table where this nightmare had begun with Catherine’s homemade pizza.
“Maybe you should stay with Aunt Lisa for a while,” he suggested, his eyes worried. “Just until this blows over.” “No,” I said firmly, my hands flat on the table. “That’s what Catherine wants, to separate us. We need to stick together.” Dad nodded slowly, a small smile breaking through his worry. “You’re right, but we need to be careful. Catherine is unpredictable.
” A few days later, Brian called with news that made my heart race. He’d found a post from Catherine on a private Facebook group for expectant mothers dated just a week ago where she mentioned being 20 weeks along. If that was true, the baby couldn’t possibly be dads. They’d only been together for about 14 weeks before breaking up.
Dad’s lawyer advised us to proceed carefully. We needed more than just screenshots that Catherine could claim were fake or taken out of context. We needed her to admit the truth, preferably on record where it couldn’t be disputed. The opportunity came sooner than expected. Catherine had been posting increasingly desperate updates about fighting for her family and how some people will do anything to come between a mother and father.
She announced she was hosting a small pre-baby gathering at her apartment and had invited several of dad’s friends and colleagues, a transparent attempt to force his hand. “It’s a trap,” I warned dad as we read the digital invitation she’d sent to his email. “She’s trying to publicly embarrass you if you don’t show up.” “It’s an opportunity,” Dad replied thoughtfully, a spark of the strategic thinker I knew, returning to his eyes.
“If we both go with Brian as backup, we hatched a plan over coffee and leftover pizza. Dad would attend the gathering with Brian, acting consiliatory but non-committal. I would arrive separately, keeping a low profile. Our goal was to get Catherine talking about the pregnancy timeline in front of witnesses to catch her in a lie so obvious that even her most ardent supporters couldn’t ignore it.
The day of the gathering arrived, sunny and deceptively cheerful. Dad and Brian went in first while I waited in Brian’s wife’s car across the street, my stomach in knots. After 20 minutes, I received the text signal and entered the apartment building. My heart pounding with each step up the stairs. Catherine’s face when she saw me was priceless.
a flash of pure hatred quickly masked by a surprised smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, I didn’t expect you to come,” she said, her voice tight despite the welcoming words. “I wouldn’t miss it,” I said sweetly, matching her fake tone. “After all, this is my future half sibling we’re celebrating.” The apartment was decorated with pink and blue balloons and a cake declaring, “Baby Patterson coming soon,” sat on the table, the frosting expertly piped.
About a dozen people milled around, including several of Dad’s co-workers and a few women I didn’t recognize, all sipping sparkling cider from plastic champagne flutes. Catherine played the perfect hostess, one hand constantly resting on her slightly protruding belly, the other touching guests arms as she laughed at their jokes.
She’d cornered Dad by the refreshment table, speaking intently while he nodded uncomfortably, trapped between her and the wall. I circulated through the room, recording snippets of conversation on my phone, the device hidden in my hand. Several guests mentioned how excited they were that Catherine was finally having her baby after trying for so long.
One woman, who introduced herself as Catherine’s cousin, Maya, was particularly chatty after a few glasses of wine that definitely weren’t cider. her cheeks flushed and her words slightly slurred. “Catherine’s wanted this for years,” she confided, leaning close enough that I could smell the alcohol on her breath. “Ever since things fell apart with Declan, she was devastated after that miscarriage.
” “Declan?” I asked innocently, figning ignorance. “Was that before my dad?” Maya nodded vigorously, her earrings swinging wildly. “Oh yes, they were engaged until about 6 months ago. Such a shame how it ended.” “6 months ago.” Well, before Catherine had met my dad at the bookstore where Tara had introduced them.
I casually steered the conversation toward the pregnancy, my heart racing with anticipation. So, when is the baby due exactly? Catherine’s been so private about the details. Early December, Mia said confidently, counting on her fingers. Catherine’s been counting down since she found out in March. March. When Catherine and Dad hadn’t even met yet, hadn’t even been in the same room together.
I thanked Maya and moved away, heart pounding with vindication. This was it. The confirmation we needed from Catherine’s own family member. I texted Dad. December due date, found out in March. Get her to confirm. Across the room, I saw Dad check his phone, then nod slightly, his eyes meeting mine briefly before returning to Catherine, who was now showing ultrasound photos to an older couple.
As the gathering wound down, Catherine clinkedked a glass for attention, the sound cutting through the chatter. “Thank you all for coming to celebrate our little miracle,” she gushed, pulling Dad close to her side, her arms snaking around his waist possessively. “As many of you know, this pregnancy has been a blessing after so much heartbreak.
” Dad smiled stiffly, his discomfort visible only to those who knew him well. “Catherine, remind me again, when exactly did we find out about the baby?” he asked, his voice casual, but clear enough to carry through the now quiet room. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. There and gone in an instant. “You know, honey, in May.
May,” Dad repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “And the baby’s due in December?” “That’s right,” she said, her smile faltering slightly as she sensed the trap closing. “That’s interesting,” Dad said conversationally. Because that would make you about 20 weeks along now, right? Catherine nodded, clearly unsure where this was going, but unable to deny basic math in front of a room full of people.
“The thing is,” Dad continued, his voice still pleasant but firm. We only dated for 14 weeks before breaking up, so I’m curious how this baby could possibly be mine.” The room went silent, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Catherine’s face flushed red, starting at her neck and creeping upward. “You’re confused about the dates,” she said quickly, her voice higher than usual.
“We started seeing each other earlier than you remember.” “No, we didn’t,” Dad said. Certainty in every syllable. “And according to your cousin Maya, you found out you were pregnant in March before we even met. All eyes turned to Maya, who looked mortified, her wine glass frozen halfway to her lips.” I I might have mixed up the months, she stammered, avoiding Catherine’s glare.
Catherine’s pleasant mask cracked, fracturing like thin ice under too much weight. This is ridiculous. Are you calling me a liar in front of our friends? I’m just trying to understand the timeline, Dad said calmly, his voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air. Because it doesn’t add up, Catherine’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the confused and suspicious faces of her guests.
Then she looked at me, standing quietly in the corner, phone in hand. You, she hissed, recognition dawning. This is all you’re doing. She lunged toward me, but dad stepped between us, his body a shield. Catherine, stop. This isn’t about my daughter. This is about the truth. The truth? She laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and unnatural.
You want the truth? Fine. The baby isn’t yours. It never was. Are you happy now? The confession hung in the air, stunning in its suddenness. Several guests gasped. Someone muttered. I knew it. In fact, Catherine continued, her voice rising hysterically, mascara beginning to run as genuine tears formed. There is no baby. There never was.
But I deserve to have you after what your precious daughter did. turning you against me, ruining everything. Dad looked at her with a mixture of pity and disgust, his face showing the final death of any feelings he might have had for her. “I think you should leave,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “This is my apartment,” she shrieked, spittle flying from her lips.
“Then we’ll leave,” Dad said, taking my arm gently. “And I suggest everyone else does, too.” As we headed for the door, Catherine’s voice rose to a scream behind us. “You’ll regret this, Larry. Both of you will. I’ll make sure everyone knows what kind of father abandons his pregnant girlfriend because his fat daughter was jealous.
” Dad stopped and turned, his face calm but resolute. Catherine, I have everything you just said recorded. If you contact either of us again or spread any more lies, I’ll take it to the police. Do you understand? Her face went slack with shock. The realization that she’d been outplayed dawning slowly. Then, with a howl of rage that seemed barely human, she grabbed the cake from the table and hurled it at us.
It missed, splattering against the wall in an explosion of blue frosting. “Get out!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “All of you, get out!” We left quickly along with the other stunned guests. No one wanting to remain in the path of Catherine’s fury. In the hallway, Brian clapped Dad on the shoulder, relief evident in his face.
“You handled that well, man.” Dad looked exhausted, but relieved, the weight of weeks of manipulation finally lifting. “Let’s go home.” In the car, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding, my body sagging with release. “It’s over,” I whispered, hardly daring to believe it. Dad reached over and squeezed my hand, his palm warm against mine. “Yes, it’s over.
But it wasn’t quite over yet.” That night, Catherine bombarded Dad’s phone with messages. threats, please, accusations, each more desperate than the last. He blocked her number after reading the first few. Then she started calling from different phones, the numbers unfamiliar, but the voice unmistakable. We unplugged the landline after the third call.
The silence a blessed relief. Around midnight, we heard a car screech into our driveway, tires protesting against the sudden stop. Catherine stumbled out, clearly hammered, and began pounding on our door. Each blow making the wood shutter. Larry, I know you’re in there. We need to talk. Dad called the police while I recorded her through the window, my phone capturing every slur word and dramatic gesture.
She was screaming incoherently, occasionally stopping to sob dramatically, mascara streaking down her face in black rivers. You’re choosing that fat cow over me. She’ll never make you happy. She’ll just drag you down like she always has. When the police arrived, their lights painting the street in red and blue. Catherine tried to claim that dad had assaulted her, pointing to a bruise on her arm that looked suspiciously like makeup.
Fortunately, my recording showed she’d arrived already agitated, the bruise visible before dad had even opened the door. The officers escorted her off our property with a warning, one of them staying behind to take our statement for a potential restraining order. The next morning, Dad’s phone was flooded with messages from friends and colleagues asking what was going on.
Catherine had posted a lengthy rant on social media, accusing Dad of terrible things, from abandonment to abuse, but her credibility was shot. Too many people had witnessed her meltdown at the baby shower, had heard her admit there was no baby. Dad’s lawyer filed for a restraining order, which was granted based on Catherine’s harassment and the threatening message she’d sent me.
We later heard through Brian that she’d left town, unable to face the humiliation of being exposed, moving back to her hometown several states away. Slowly, our life returned to normal. The nightmare receding like a tide going out. Dad and I rebuilt our relationship. Spending evenings cooking together and watching our favorite shows.
The familiar routines healing what Catherine had tried to break. He apologized repeatedly for not believing me for letting Catherine come between us. His regret evident in every extra scoop of ice cream he brought home. Every time he asked about my day and really listened to the answer. I was so blinded by the idea of having another child, he admitted one night as we sat on the couch watching Vampire Diaries.
The familiar drama of Elena and the Salvatory brothers playing out on screen. I think I was trying to recreate our family, to give you a sibling, to make everything perfect again. Dad, you don’t need to make anything perfect, I told him. The truth of it settling in my bones.
We were already perfect, just you and me. He smiled, tears in his eyes catching the light from the TV. When did you get so wise? I had a good teacher, I said, leaning my head on his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave. Two weeks later, on a rainy Saturday morning, Dad surprised me with a stack of pancakes drizzled with real maple syrup and a small wrapped box.
“What’s this for?” I asked, fingering the silver ribbon. To make up for missing your birthday celebration, he said, referring to the dinner we’d planned that Catherine had somehow managed to ruin with a conveniently timed emergency. Open it. Inside was a delicate silver necklace with two interlocking circles, the metal catching the light from the kitchen window.
One for each of us, Dad explained, his voice soft with emotion. To remind you that no matter what happens, it’s you and me against the world. I hugged him tight, feeling safer than I had in months, the necklace cool between our pressed bodies. Catherine had nearly destroyed us, had almost succeeded in tearing apart what had always been unbreakable.
But in the end, she’d only made our bond stronger, tempered like steel and fire. That afternoon, as we sat in the kitchen making a shopping list for the week, Dad looked up suddenly, his pen pausing midward. You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how you have the opposite of daddy issues.
I laughed, remembering my words from what felt like a lifetime ago. Yeah, I hope that’s still true, he said seriously, his eyes searching mine. After everything that happened with Catherine, I wouldn’t blame you if your view of me had changed. I shook my head firmly. No hesitation in my response. Dad, you made a mistake, but when it counted, you chose me. You believed me.
That’s what matters. He smiled, relief washing over his face like sunshine after rain. So, chicken Alfredo for dinner? Definitely, I grinned. The memory of that healing meal warm between us. And maybe ice cream for dessert. Two scoops, he promised, his eyes crinkling at the corners. One for each of us.
