My Apartment Burned Down. My Parents Said, “Not Our Problem.” Then the Fire Investigator Called.

“Your father needs me.”

“Stepfather,” I corrected.

“What?”

“Richard is my stepfather, not my father.”

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone. My hands weren’t shaking anymore. That surprised me. Something had shifted in the last few days. The grief was still there—for my apartment, my things, the life I’d built. But underneath it, something harder was continue reading …