“Get out! You are not my daughter! Never come back!”
Those were the words I screamed that night.

They have echoed in my head for ten long years. They hurt more than any knife, reopening a wound that will never heal.

She was only fourteen — a thin, pale girl clutching an old backpack — standing in the rain outside my house in Quezon City. She didn’t defend herself. She didn’t argue. She just looked at me with wide, terrified eyes… then slowly turned away and disappeared into the darkness as the storm swallowed her fragile figure.

My name is Michael Harris. I was forty-two back then, a supplier of construction materials. I believed I had everything figured out: a stable job, a comfortable home, and a wife I loved more than anything.

Her name was Laura Harris.

She died in a car accident one cold October night, and my world collapsed.

But the real destruction came weeks later, when I found a secret hidden in her drawer: letters written years before we were married. Letters addressed to a man named Daniel Brooks. Love letters.

And in one of them, a line that froze my blood:

“For our daughter, Emily — may she always know she is loved.”

Our daughter.

Emily — the girl I raised. The child I protected. The one I taught how to ride a bike, the one I tucked into bed every night — wasn’t mine.

I broke.

Every memory, every hug, every “I love you, Papa” felt like a lie. I drowned my anger in alcohol, destroying everything that reminded me of Laura. And when Emily approached me one evening, trembling, asking why I hadn’t eaten dinner… something inside me snapped.

“Pack your things and leave!” I shouted.
“You’re not my daughter! You’re her mistake!”

She didn’t scream. She didn’t fight back. Tears simply fell silently down her face as she walked out the door and vanished into the rain.

From that night on, the house was silent. The laughter that once filled the halls disappeared. When neighbors asked, I answered coldly, “She left.”

I convinced myself I had done the right thing. That I had cleansed my life of betrayal.

But every night, I woke up sweating, hearing phantom sobs in the hallway. The rain tapping on the window sounded like her footsteps coming home.

Years passed.

At fifty-two, I was an old man living in an empty house filled with ghosts. My health failed. My back ached. My hands trembled. And my heart — though still beating — felt hollow.

Sometimes I passed by the school Emily used to attend, imagining her running across the yard, shouting,

“Papa, wait for me!”

But when I turned around…
there was only the wind.

And then, one afternoon…

“Get out! You are not my daughter! Never come back!”

Those were the words I screamed that night.

Even after ten long years, they still echo inside my head. They hurt more than any knife, tearing open a wound that will never fully heal.

She was only fourteen — a thin, pale girl clutching an old backpack — standing in the rain outside my house in Quezon City. She didn’t defend herself. She didn’t say a word. She only looked at me with those wide, frightened eyes… then slowly turned away, disappearing into the storm.

My name is Michael Harris. I was forty-two back then, a supplier of construction materials, convinced I had life all figured out: a stable job, a comfortable home, and a wife I loved more than anything.

My wife, Laura Harris, died in a car accident one cold October night… and that was the beginning of my collapse.

The real devastation came weeks later, when I found a bundle of old letters hidden in her drawer. They were addressed to a man named Daniel Brooks. Love letters.

And in one of them, a line froze my blood:

“For our daughter, Emily — may she always know she is loved.”

Our daughter.

Emily — the girl I raised. The child I protected. The one I taught how to ride a bike, the one I tucked into bed every night… wasn’t mine.

I shattered.

All the love I had given her turned into rage and betrayal. I drowned myself in alcohol. I destroyed photos, memories, everything.

And when Emily approached me one evening, asking softly why I hadn’t eaten dinner, something inside me snapped.

“Pack your things and leave!” I shouted.
“You’re not my daughter. You’re her mistake!”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t scream. She just let silent tears fall… and walked out the door.

That was the last time I saw her.

The house became silent. No laughter. Only echoes and regret.

When people asked, I answered coldly, “She left.”

I convinced myself I had done the right thing. But every night, I heard her crying in my dreams. The rain against the windows sounded like her footsteps trying to come home.

Years passed.

At fifty-two, I was an old man living among ghosts. My back hurt. My hands trembled. My heart still beat — but it felt empty.

Until one day, someone knocked on my door.

A young woman in a white coat stood outside, holding a tablet. She had the same eyes as Laura.

“Mr. Harris,” she said gently, “I’m here to talk to you about your daughter… Emily.”

My heart stopped.

“My… daughter?”

“My name is Dr. Emma Clark, from the Genome Research Center. We found a genetic match between you and Emily.”

“Then… she’s alive?” I whispered.

She nodded.

“Yes. But she’s critically ill. She has end-stage kidney failure. She urgently needs a transplant… and you are a compatible donor.”

My world collapsed again.

Not only was she alive… she had always been my biological daughter.

I rushed to the hospital.

Through the glass, I saw her: thin, pale, connected to tubes. Still her. Still my child.

A nurse told me her story. She had been found years ago living on the streets. A kind couple adopted her and helped her finish school. She became a literature teacher.

But the illness came. And before she slipped into a coma, she said only one thing:

“If I die… please try to find my father.”

I entered her room.

Her eyes slowly opened. We looked at each other for a long moment. Then she gave me a weak smile.

“Papa… I knew you’d come.”

I fell to my knees beside her bed.

“Forgive me, anak. I failed you.”

“Don’t cry, Papa,” she whispered. “I just wanted to see you one last time.”

I refused to accept that. I signed the consent forms immediately.

“Take whatever you need,” I told the doctors. “Save her.”

Seven hours later, the surgeon smiled.

“The transplant was successful. Both of you are stable.”

I cried with relief.

But the peace didn’t last.

Days later, her body began rejecting the kidney. Infection returned. She slipped into another coma.

I stayed by her side, talking to her, begging forgiveness, telling her everything I should have said years ago.

Until one morning, with sunlight spilling into the room, I heard a faint voice:

“Papa…”

She woke up.

“I promise you,” I told her, holding her hand tightly, “you will never be alone again.”

She smiled softly.

“Live well, Papa. That’s all I ever wanted.”

We had a few peaceful weeks. We laughed. We shared soup. We watched the sunrise together.

Then one dawn, when I reached for her hand… it was cold.

Emily passed away peacefully.

I brought her ashes to the cemetery where Laura Harris rests and had these words engraved:

“To my beloved daughter —
the one who taught me what love truly means.”

Today, I live alone in the same house. I plant pink roses in her honor. Every morning, when the sunlight touches their petals, I feel her smile.

I now dedicate my life to helping homeless children — not out of guilt, not for redemption, but because I want to live the way Emily would have wanted.

Ten more years have passed. My hair is white now. My heart is quieter.

Sometimes, when the wind moves through the roses, I swear I hear her voice:

“It’s okay, Papa. I never hated you.”

And I look up at the sky, letting the sunlight warm my face… finally feeling peace.