Sad to Say Goodbye

Eight years ago, a night of drunken recklessness left me carrying Grayson Ulrich's child.

But from that moment on, he began to hate both me and our daughter.

He never allowed her to call him "Dad." He wouldn't let me step into his study, either.

Because inside that study, every inch of space was filled with traces of another woman—Sandra Wright, the ex-fiancée who had once left him for freedom and happiness, who had gone abroad to marry a rich man.

She was the one Grayson could never forget. The one he still loved.

On our eighth anniversary, Sandra returned.

That night, Grayson got drunk for the first time in years. He held our daughter in his arms and wept until his eyes were red.

My daughter looked at me, bewildered. "Mom, why is Uncle crying?"

I held back my tears and told her softly, "Because he is very happy. The person he loves has finally come back."

Then I said, "So, Mommy's taking you away—so we won't disturb him and the woman he loves, okay?"

I helped the drunken Grayson Ulrich to his room, then turned back to soothe our crying daughter.

Alicia's little face, red from tears, burrowed into my arms as she asked reluctantly, "Mom, do we really have to leave?"

She lifted her head, hope flickering in her eyes.

"Today, Uncle was so gentle. He didn't scold me, didn't push me away. He even gave me a warm hug… Mom, does that mean… maybe he likes me a little?"

My heart lurched, a sudden, sharp pain.

On our wedding day, Grayson had looked at me with that cold, unyielding gaze and said, "Marrying you is my reluctant duty. Don't expect any attention from me. You, and the child in your womb, are not what I wanted."

After our daughter, Alicia Ulrich, was born, he didn't so much as glance at her. He spent every day locked away in his study. He never let her call him Dad.

When she was just learning to speak at one, she had thrown her tiny arms around him and said, "Daddy."

He had thrown her onto the sofa, scowled, and left the house.

She had screamed in terror, and I spent the entire night coaxing her to sleep.

For six months after that, she refused to speak a single word.

At five, she had drawn a picture titled My Dad and entered it in a children's art contest—and won first place.

At Grayson's birthday party, she had handed him her drawing and the trophy with trembling little hands.

His gaze lingered on the wobbly, childlike letters spelling "Dad". Then, with cold indifference, he had turned and walked away. He left her alone, facing the stares and whispers of the guests.

Other children laughed at her openly.

"You don't even have a dad. This drawing is fake. You tricked our teacher. That trophy isn't really yours!"

A five-year-old couldn't withstand such ridicule. By the end of the night, she was bedridden