I used to blame my stepmom for my father’s death. Not that she actually killed him, but I saw her as an accomplice. They were both drunks, from what I remember. Then again… I’ve blocked out so much of my childhood that only bits and pieces come through.

It wasn’t until maybe eight years after my father passed that I finally had the courage to accept it was his fate—and that he dug his own grave.

I won’t get into the details, since I’ve touched on this before, but let’s just say: timing is everything.

Every year on the anniversary of his death, I was a wreck. I hated everything and everyone who was around him leading up to those final moments—including his wife. That hatred sat heavy in my heart for years, until the night my father visited me in a dream.

He looked healthy. Happy. But his energy was serious—unlike his usual jokester self. It caught me off guard. The only part of our conversation that stuck with me was when he said:

“I was a grown man. I chose that life. My wife didn’t make me do anything. You’ve got to free yourself from that thought and accept it for what it is.”

I cried so hard when I woke up.

The tears were long overdue. I had so many emotions bottled up. And honestly? I was mad that he used one of the rare moments he came to me in a dream to talk about forgiveness instead of just being with me. I’ve only seen him twice since he passed. I wanted presence—not a lecture.

A few days later, my kids and I took a road trip to Delaware to visit family. My father and his wife lived there too.

No exaggeration—the moment we crossed into Delaware, that dream hit me again. Right after, I felt a gut-punch: “Go to Daddy’s house.” It hit so hard I almost felt it physically. I said out loud, “NO.” I did not want to see my stepmom. I couldn’t even imagine it. My daughter asked why I yelled, and I just told her to let it go.

As we drove deeper into Delaware, my brother called. He and I are my daddy’s only kids. He knew we were coming.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Are you here yet?” he asked.

I told him where I was. Then he said it: “We should go to Dad’s house.”

I stared at the phone like what?! He’d never asked me that before. He knew how I felt about our stepmom—and he didn’t agree with me one bit. But still.

The dream. The intuitive push. Then the phone call. Three signs. I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The day came and girl, I was a nervous wreck. I wasn’t the same woman I was eight years ago. I’d softened. I was a mother now. My brother was supposed to meet us there, but my kids and I got there first. I was shaking. I hadn’t been to my father’s house since I was a broken child. My daughter noticed my nerves, held my hand, and spoke life into me. We walked in together.

My chest was heavy. The house looked different. My stepmom greeted us, and her energy was softer than I expected. I introduced her to my kids. She seemed happy to meet them. My daughter was beaming.

After a few moments, we started talking. I needed to be real with her. I said, respectfully, “I blamed you for my father’s death.”

I couldn’t even get the words out before I broke down crying.

She didn’t judge me. Didn’t get defensive. She just listened.

I let it all out—my hate, my grief, my belief that she wasn’t good enough to save him, to get him the help he clearly needed.

When I finished, she said, “I know, baby. As much as I wanted to convince you otherwise, I had to let you find your healing. You were angry. And honestly… your dad had a problem.”

I sat in silence. It was my turn to listen.

She told me she tried to help him, but he refused it. I didn’t know she had stopped drinking long before he did. I didn’t know she’d tried to get him clean. I didn’t know how hard it is to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. Once he got sick and needed a liver transplant, she did what she could. But she was right—you can’t force a grown man to choose life.

I was speechless.

She was right. I was an angry child. My mom was emotionally unavailable. My dad was emotionally unstable. I couldn’t see anything good, even if it was right in front of me.

Then she told me something that changed everything: she understood how I felt because she’d been there. She lost her own father too—and blamed it on her stepmom. Her dad died of cancer. His wife was a nurse. She was furious that her stepmom didn’t save him—until years later, she found out her father never even told anyone he had cancer.

We shared that moment. That history. That pain.

I saw her differently before I left.

My brother finally arrived an hour later, and then came my stepsisters and their kids. I hadn’t seen them in over a decade. It felt like a family reunion. They brought out old pictures of my dad, and we laughed, reminisced, shared the good stuff.

It was a healing I didn’t know I needed.

It’s been two years since that visit. I don’t carry rage or resentment anymore—not toward my stepmom, and not even toward my father. I still cry about him being gone, but it’s no longer tied to some imaginary villain I created out of pain.

I know now that I wasn’t the only one hurting.