The house was unusually quiet that Saturday morning, as though it, too, was adjusting to the changes that had taken place within its walls. Rebecca's absence left behind a silence that no one dared fill just yet. Cinderella stood by the balcony, arms folded across her chest, staring into the distance. Her heart had been heavy these past few days, not from grief, but from the weight of everything that had happened. It felt as though her world had spun violently for years and only now was slowly coming to a halt.
Behind her, Desmond stood in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea. He hesitated before clearing his throat.
"I wasn't sure if you'd still like chamomile," he said gently.
Cinderella turned slowly, eyes flicking to the mugs, then to her father. She hesitated for only a moment before taking one from his hand.
"Thanks… Dad."
It was the first time she had called him that in weeks. Desmond's hand trembled slightly as she accepted the tea, and a trace of emotion passed over his face. They sat down on the outdoor loveseat without a word, the steam rising from their mugs curling in the cool morning air.
"I was blind for so long," Desmond finally said, his voice hoarse. "I let her fool me. I let her hurt you."
Cinderella stayed quiet, the warmth of the mug seeping into her palms. She wasn't ready to forgive yet—not entirely—but she was ready to hear him.
"She turned me against you," he continued. "Made me believe you were rebellious, difficult. I should have known better. I should have known my daughter."
Cinderella's eyes watered slightly, but she blinked them back. "It wasn't just you, Dad. She was good at it. Manipulating everyone. Even me, sometimes."
Desmond looked over at her. "I'm sorry. For all the years I wasn't the father you needed. For not listening. For not seeing."
There was a long pause. The wind rustled the nearby trees, as if nature was giving them the space to heal.
"I missed you," Cinderella said quietly. "Even when I was angry… I missed my dad."
That did it. Desmond reached over and pulled her into a tight embrace. She didn't resist. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to lean into him, to breathe in the scent of home and comfort.
"I don't expect you to forgive me right away," he whispered into her hair. "But I'm here. I'll keep showing up until I earn it."
---
Over the following weeks, Desmond made good on his promise. He showed up.
He started small—texting her reminders to eat, leaving little notes for her by the fridge, checking in after her classes. Cinderella found herself slowly letting him back in. Their breakfasts turned into quiet conversations, and their dinners, while still awkward, became a routine.
He even began helping with her university projects, offering insights from his business background that surprisingly helped with her final year thesis. He read her draft essays, gave her notes, and encouraged her creativity. She had forgotten how smart and attentive he could be.
One evening, as they worked side by side at the dining table, Desmond looked up from her laptop.
"You've really grown, Cindy. You're strong. Independent. I'm proud of you."
Cinderella smiled faintly. "Thanks… I've had to be."
He nodded solemnly. "I know. But you don't have to do everything alone anymore."
---
The healing wasn't instant. There were still nights when Cinderella replayed Rebecca's cruel words or remembered how Desmond had dismissed her cries for help. But each day, those memories held a little less power.
Desmond, for his part, never pushed her. He let her speak when she was ready, listened when she vented, and never once tried to defend Rebecca again. It was clear he was no longer blind to the kind of woman he had brought into their lives.
He began seeing a therapist, something Cinderella hadn't expected. One evening, he came home holding a self-help book and a notepad filled with scribbles.
"I want to learn," he said. "To do better, to be better."
That night, Cinderella cried alone in her room—not from sadness, but from a kind of release she hadn't felt in years. For the first time, she felt like her father was truly back.
---
One Sunday afternoon, Desmond surprised her with a visit to Caroline's favorite garden—now refurbished and maintained by a local non-profit. The walkways were lined with blooming roses, and a small plaque dedicated to Caroline Harper rested beside a fountain.
"She loved this place," he said softly. "I thought… maybe we could plant something in her memory."
Cinderella knelt beside the empty plot they'd been assigned. With gloved hands, she began digging. Desmond joined her.
Together, they planted sunflowers—Caroline's favorite.
"She would've been proud of you," he said. "So proud."
Cinderella looked at the flowers, their golden heads tilted toward the sun. She reached out and squeezed her father's hand.
"She'd be proud of you too, Dad."
They stood in silence, hands clasped, surrounded by the scent of blooming life and long-awaited healing.
In that moment, Cinderella felt a weight lift from her chest. The past could not be erased, but the future was finally hers to reclaim—with a father who had found his way back to her, and a heart no longer shackled by bitterness.
The following week marked Cinderella's 22nd birthday. She hadn't thought about it—hadn't even planned to celebrate. Life had been too messy, too complicated. But Desmond had other plans.
He recruited Eloise, Martha, and even Heather to help plan a surprise party at the estate. It was the first event in the mansion since Rebecca's downfall, and though the atmosphere remained subdued, the idea of celebration felt like a tiny spark of joy that the family sorely needed.
On the day of her birthday, Desmond insisted they go out for brunch. Cinderella, skeptical but amused, went along with it. She wore a simple yellow sundress and flats, assuming it was just going to be a quiet meal.
But when they returned to the estate, the grand foyer burst into a symphony of "SURPRISE!"
Balloons floated in clusters of gold and white. A long table was covered with food—everything from finger foods to three-tiered cakes. A jazz band played softly in the background. Eloise grinned from ear to ear, while Heather waved from near the punch bowl.
Cinderella stood frozen in the doorway.
"Dad?" she asked, stunned.
Desmond chuckled. "Happy birthday, pumpkin."
Cinderella turned to him with wide eyes. "You did all this?"
"With help. I thought maybe… you deserved a birthday without drama. Just love."
She threw her arms around him. "Thank you."
And for the first time in years, she celebrated without a dark cloud looming over her.
Later in the afternoon, Desmond led her outside to the driveway.
"Close your eyes," he said.
Cinderella frowned. "More surprises?"
"Just one."
She covered her eyes with her hands. When he told her to open them, she gasped.
A sleek, silver convertible sat gleaming in the sunlight. A giant red bow adorned the hood. Cinderella's jaw dropped.
"Dad… is this—?"
"It's yours," he said with a proud smile. "You've earned it. For your strength, your grace… for surviving everything and still being kind."
Cinderella was speechless. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I don't know what to say."
He hugged her tightly. "Say you'll drive it carefully."
She laughed through her tears. "I will."
— — —
The party stretched into the evening. There were toasts, heartfelt speeches, and even a spontaneous karaoke session led by Heather. Desmond watched his daughter laugh, truly laugh, for the first time in years.
It wasn't just a birthday—it was a symbol of rebirth.
Later that night, Cinderella sat in her room, the keys to her new car resting in her palm. She looked around her space—so familiar, yet suddenly full of promise.
There was still healing to do. Still wounds to mend. But for the first time, she felt like she could breathe. The girl who once hid in shadows was stepping into the light.
And Desmond—Dad—was walking beside her.
The family, broken and scattered for so long, was finally being restored.
One birthday… one step at a time.