We’re Taking Everything, Your DAD Gave Us Permission My Mom And Sister Filling Bas With My Things..
The Fever and the Theft
“I don’t care if she’s sick,” my sister snapped, her voice echoing through the living room.
“Dad allowed it. We’re taking everything we like.”
I was lying on the couch, burning up with a 104° Fahrenheit fever. My skin was damp and trembling, and my lips were cracked.
“Take it,” I whispered. My voice barely came out.
Mom didn’t look at me. She was already in my bathroom, grabbing my skincare, my unopened perfume, and the little luxuries I’d bought over the years.
My sister ripped open my drawers like they were hers, stuffing armfuls of dresses into her tote.
I didn’t cry. I just stared at the ceiling, my heart pounding so slowly I could count each beat. They weren’t here to help me. They were here to strip me.
I heard the front door click open again. There were Dad’s heavy footsteps, the pause, and the long silence as he reached the hallway. Then, Scarlet.
He stepped into my bedroom and froze. The room was ransacked, my body was limp, and my skin was pale and burning. A trail of my things led to the hallway.
Dad turned toward the living room.
“What the hell is this, Mom?”
Mom’s face blanched. I was too weak to sit up, but I didn’t need to because, for the first time, he finally saw me.
“What the hell is this?” Dad repeated, louder now.
My sister smirked until she saw his face. Mom tried to speak first.
“She said we could take it. She told us, ‘Take it,’ didn’t she?”
Dad looked at me. I nodded faintly.
“I did,” I rasped.
“But why?” he demanded, stepping over scattered shoes and lipsticks. “Why would you let them, Scarlet? Are you even able to stand?”
I tried. I failed. My body folded like a dying flower.
Dad rushed forward and caught me just before I hit the hardwood. That was when he touched my forehead and froze again.
“Jesus Christ, she’s burning up. She’s delirious.”
He turned toward my mother like she was a stranger.
“You walked past her. You saw her like this. And you still went through her stuff.”
Mom went quiet.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” he said.
“Don’t overreact,” Mom barked, suddenly defensive. “She’s always dramatic.”
Dad’s glare cut her off cold.
“Get out. But get out of this apartment before I drag you out.”
They didn’t believe him until he started dialing. They left fuming.
He stayed, holding a cold towel to my forehead. And for the first time since I was 16, he didn’t look like their husband. He looked like my father again.
I stayed in bed for three days. My fever broke sometime between dawn and dusk, with Dad sleeping upright in a chair beside me like a watchdog that refused to blink.
He barely left my side. When he did, I’d find soup on the nightstand, fresh towels, and my meds sorted in a dish.
It was strange. Not just because he was present, but because for years he hadn’t been.
He’d always take Mom’s side, laughed at her jokes about me being overly sensitive, and sat quietly while my sister borrowed and broke everything I ever owned.
He funded their chaos and dismissed my tears. But now, something shifted.
The fourth morning, I woke to his voice, low and shaking. He was on the phone.
“I saw it with my own eyes. They walked past her like she was garbage. Like she didn’t even exist.”
He paused.
“I don’t care how long I’ve been married. You don’t treat your child like that. Not while I’m still breathing.”
