Before he died, my father kicked my stepmother out of the house. We thought he was afraid that Mrs. Tr would compete with us for the inheritance, but the truth was much more unexpected…/th

Before he died, my father kicked my stepmother out of the house.

We thought he was afraid that Mrs. Tr would compete with us for the inheritance, but the truth was much more unexpected… Before he died, my father kicked my stepmother out of the house, thinking he was afraid she would compete with us for the property, but the truth was much more shocking.

I never imagined that my father was so meticulous and hid such deep emotions.

I am the youngest daughter in the family, with two older brothers. My mother passed away when I was just over a year old, before I could even say “mom.” Three years later, my father remarried. Aunt Cham was a small and quiet woman. I grew up under her care.

She prepared porridge for me and spoon-fed me when I, at four years old, looked like a much smaller and fragile child.

She took me to school and picked me up every afternoon.

The day I started first grade, she was as happy as if I were her biological daughter.

In my memory, Aunt Cham was not a stranger, but a “mother” in her own way.

It’s just that my two brothers didn’t think the same.

Changing diapers, cooking porridge, feeding me spoonful by spoonful, taking me to school, and waiting quietly outside like a familiar shadow.

In my memory, my aunt wasn’t a stranger but a different kind of “mother.” But my two brothers didn’t see her that way.

My brothers were 10 and 13 years old when Aunt Cham came to live with us, and they hated her deeply, always rebelling against her.

They whispered among themselves, “She’s just a stepmother, she can’t really be good.”

They encouraged me to oppose and argue with my aunt. My eldest brother said:

“You’re stupid, she only takes care of you to please Dad. She’s just a stepmother, nothing more.”

They filled my head with doubts, advising me to be cautious and not be fooled.

There were times I really got confused, and listening to my brothers, I argued with my aunt and even cut her clothes in a mischief.

But when I saw her crying alone in her room, I cried with her.

The older I grew, the more I understood that my aunt, although we did not share blood, treated me better than many relatives.

That’s why I stopped opposing her and treated her more affectionately, even calling her “Mama Cham.”

One time, I saw my father hugging her, asking her to be patient with my brothers, who had lost their mother at a young age and behaved poorly.

She only cried and nodded. She was always gentle, never scolded or punished them, and perhaps that was why my brothers treated her even worse.

Over time, my brothers got married and moved out of the house; only my father, Aunt Cham, and I remained.

At the beginning of this year, Dad became seriously ill and often grew irritable, yelling at my aunt.

Once, when my brothers brought their families over, Dad threw her out of the house in front of everyone.

Though she was sad, she stayed nearby, waiting for Dad to calm down.

Last month, Dad called for a family meeting. I arrived late due to another commitment.

When I got there, the atmosphere was tense; my aunt was hurriedly packing her things.

Dad said coldly: “It’s over. Get out of my sight. Don’t bother me anymore.”

I panicked and tried to ask why, but he wouldn’t say a word.

My aunt silently accepted it, smiled at me sadly, and asked me not to say anything.

The image of her thin figure dragging her suitcase stayed etched in my memory.

When I tried to follow her, Dad shouted at me.

Fifteen days later, Dad passed away. The funeral was short, and Aunt Cham handled everything by herself.

Afterward, she left again, and my brothers showed little interest.

They even suspected that Dad had kicked her out to prevent her from claiming the inheritance since he was dying.

After 49 days, my three brothers gathered to divide the inheritance: a plot of land, a three-story house, and some farmland.

Everyone was going to get their share.

But then I met my father’s friend and lawyer, who told me that four months earlier—one month before Dad drove her away—he had bought a house in Aunt Cham’s name.

All the property papers were under her name.

I was stunned. Dad wasn’t afraid that Aunt Cham would compete for the property; what he feared was that we would hurt the woman who had silently cared for us all these years.

I went to visit Aunt Cham. Her new home was small but bright and tidy.

She welcomed me with the same sweet smile and that familiar grace.

After talking to her, I understood that Dad was right: if my brothers knew the truth, Aunt Cham would never find peace.