My millionaire father valued his suit more than us until we soaked him with the hose as revenge for his absence, and he shouted, “I’ll send you all away!” but ended up crying on his knees in the mud.

Ethan was one of the most powerful and intimidating businessmen in Santa Monica, a man used to quiet rooms and careful words, whose life revolved around contracts, deadlines, and numbers with too many zeros. To him, time equaled money—and his children, without him realizing it, felt like an interruption to both.

The twins lived in a beautiful, aging house in Pasadena, tucked behind tall walls draped in blooming vines. They were raised mostly by their grandparents, George and Margaret, who had stepped in where Ethan had quietly stepped away.

But the true warmth of the home came from Rosa, a kind woman with gentle hands and a constant presence in the kitchen, who loved the children as if they were her own. The house smelled of coffee and warm bread, but it could never quite cover the absence that lingered in every room.

Ethan visited rarely—once a month at best—and even then, his presence brought tension instead of comfort. One warm Saturday afternoon, a sleek black car stopped outside the gate.