Adopted Daughter Told Me to Leave, So I Did as She Wished

The frame on the wall was covered in dust. I took it down to clean it.

The door burst open with a loud kick. Lily Langford stormed in, tearing apart every photo I owned. Her voice was sharp and vicious. "How dare you touch my dad's photo? You'll never replace him. Never."

I stayed silent. My silence only seemed to fuel her triumph. "This is my house. Get out."

I had cared for her for ten years. Now, I felt nothing. No anger, no sadness—just an overwhelming exhaustion.

"If that's what you want, so be it."

---

The room was in shambles. I looked down at my ankle. Pieces of shattered glass from the frame had embedded into my skin, sharp pain radiating with every step. The mess was from my fight with Lily.

Ignoring the pain, I crouched down and sifted through the wreckage of shredded paper. Finally, I found it—my photo with my mother. This photo had been my anchor through countless bitter winters. And now, it was ruined on a bright summer day. I could barely remember her face anymore. The memories had faded, but her words remained.

"I hate the summer," she'd once said.

I hated it too. It had taken everything from me.

"What's with that look? Don't think acting pathetic is going to make me feel sorry for you." Lily's voice dragged me back to the present. "You touched my dad's stuff first, you disgusting man. Don't ever think you can take his place."

Still dazed, I barely reacted as she kicked another frame at my feet. The glass shards scattered, one slicing across my cheek. Blood dripped steadily, staining the photo in my trembling hands. I stiffened, my eyes filled with a mix of pain and disbelief.

"Lily Langford," I said quietly, "who told you this?"

At eleven years old, she was both innocent and cruel. "Nobody had to tell me. Everyone in this house knows. You forced your way into my family, trying to take my dad's place. But it won't work. Not with me, and not with my mom."

Her cold, gray eyes glared at me one last time before she stormed out.

The butler, Mr. Thorne, who had been standing quietly near the door, now approached with a first-aid kit.

"Sir, you shouldn't provoke Miss Lily like that," he said, his tone flat yet edged with disapproval.

I lowered my gaze, dabbing at the blood on my cheek. "Mr. Thorne," I said evenly, "I'm her father."

Maybe not by blood, but by title, I was.

He clearly understood my words but didn't hide his irritation. "I was just making a point, sir. If you don't want to hear it, that's fine. Mrs. Langford is waiting for you in the study."

I nodded, patched up my wounds quickly, and headed upstairs.

Victoria Langford sat in her opulent leather chair, a rare cigarette balanced between her fingers. Beside her was the photo I had taken down earlier. I hadn't had the chance to clean it, but the gleaming frame made it clear someone else had already done the job.

"I know you were just trying to clean the photo," she said, her tone calm yet detached. "But Lily's still a child. You don't have to go out of your way to do these things. It only upsets her."

Her gaze never left the photo, not even for a second. From the moment I entered, her eyes were fixed on it, as if I didn't even exist. A wave of frustration and sorrow washed over me.

"It's been ten years," she continued coldly. "And I've always thought you understood your role as a man of this house. You've always known what to do—and what not to do."

Her face hardened, but I remained silent, my fingers fidgeting absently. The photo, now dust-free, lay pristine in her hands, carefully protected. Meanwhile, my cheek and ankle throbbed from shallow wounds, blood still staining the floor. Yet even in my battered state, I couldn't compete with the importance of that lifeless object. When it came to breaking someone down, this mother and daughter were unmatched. But there was no time for me to dwell on it.

"I understand," I said with a quiet sigh.

Her tightly furrowed brow eased just slightly.

"Come closer," she said.