The girls had to publicly denounce me as a failed father and choose her instead—signing a contract that erased eighteen years of love in exchange for money and status.
I read the document aloud, my hands shaking.
Emma picked up the envelope, paused, then said calmly, “Yes, this is a lot of money.”
My heart cracked.
“But we’ve never needed it,” she continued. “We already have everything that matters.”
Clara stood beside her. “We had a father who stayed. Who loved us when things were hard.”
Emma tore the envelope open and threw the bills into the air.
“We’re not for sale.”
Lauren lost control. She screamed about her fame, her sacrifices, her career. But every word only exposed the truth.
“You didn’t leave to build a future for us,” Clara said coldly. “You left because you were selfish.”
Clara opened the door. “Please leave.”
Lauren gathered her money and bags and stormed out.
Within hours, the story went viral. Emma’s friend had been video-calling during the confrontation and posted it with the caption:
This is what real love looks like.
Public opinion turned fast. Lauren lost contracts, representation, and credibility. Her carefully crafted image collapsed.
Meanwhile, Emma and Clara were offered full scholarships to a prestigious costume design program—not because of pity, but because of talent.
Yesterday, I watched them on set, adjusting costumes with confidence and precision. A director told me, “Your daughters are incredible.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m the lucky one.”
We still live in the same small apartment. We still eat takeout and laugh too loudly.
Lauren chose fame and found emptiness.
We chose each other—and found everything.
My daughters didn’t need designer dresses or stacks of cash.
They needed someone who stayed.
And eighteen years later, when their mother tried to buy them back, they already knew the difference between something expensive—and something priceless.
