After my wife died, I never thought I’d find love again—until Amelia. She was gentle, patient, and Sophie adored her. But when I returned from a business trip, Sophie clung to me and whispered, “Daddy, new mom is scary when you’re not here.”
According to Sophie, Amelia locked herself in the attic and suddenly became strict—no treats, no fun. It didn’t sound like the woman I married.
That night, I followed Amelia upstairs, my stomach in knots. When I opened the attic door, I gasped.
The room was a child’s paradise—fairy lights, books, a tiny tea set. Amelia had been secretly building a playroom for Sophie, but in her quest for perfection, she’d turned into a disciplinarian.
“I wanted to be everything for her,” Amelia sobbed. “But I forgot that love is messy.”
The next day, we showed Sophie the attic. Her fear melted into pure joy. As they sat together, sharing ice cream and stories, I realized the truth: family isn’t about perfection—it’s about love, mistakes, and second chances.
