I was deep into my books at the university library when my phone rang. It was my father. I could sense something wasn’t right because he never called me to chat. “Come home right away,” he said, and before I had the chance to ask what was going on, he hung up on me.
I was tense and hurried towards my car while my books kept slipping from my hands.
Before I knew, I was at my dad’s doorstep, wondering what was so urgent.
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He opened the door and as I entered I saw my stepmom, Linda, and her son, Jacob sitting on the couch.
“Listen Emma,” my father started speaking. “Jacob needs a place to stay for a while and since his old room is now Linda’s office, he’ll be taking your room.”
His words came as a shock to me. “But dad, where would I stay then?”
“You are a smart girl, Emma, you can live on the campus. You’ll figure something out.”
But no, I couldn’t live on campus full-time because I had to study and I barely found time for my part-job that was supposed to help me save up some money for the following semester. But my dad didn’t seem to care.
He was more concerned for his 35-year-old stepson who had wasted every chance ever given to him by my dad and my step-mom.
Devastated but determined to navigate throughout the rough period that followed, I found another job. I spent my days working and studied during the nights. I could barely stand on my feet, but I knew I needed to show everyone that I would succeed.
Over time, I managed to save up some money and rented a small apartment at the outskirts of the city. I was incredibly proud of myself.
One day, as I was getting ready for university, I got a call from my stepmom. She sounded worried and as though she was crying. “Emma, please come home, we lost the house.”
She didn’t tell me any details, but I could sense Jacob was behind whatever happened to my parents’ home.
And I was right. When I arrived, a scene of wreckage unfolded in front of my eyes. The house burnt down and firefighters were trying to save whatever belongings they could.
My father, with tears rolling down his eyes, said he was sorry for taking my room from me. If hadn’t done it, none of this would have happened.
It turned out Jacob threw a party while my dad and Linda were at the lake and one of his friends was smoking and accidentally set the curtains on fire.
“You made your choices, dad,” I said. But still, I felt sorry for him and Linda who begged me to help them as they dealt with the aftermath of the fire and worked out the insurance and rebuilding plans.
Part of me wanted to let them deal with the mess they created themselves, but another part knew I needed to help them.
My apartment was small, but it was all I could offer and we managed to find a rhythm. I told my dad and Linda that I wanted to be treated with the respect I deserved.
On the weekends, the three of us went at the site and saw the new house being built brick by brick, as slowly and as steadily as our relationship.
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