After the funeral, Ben Dixon’s decision to sell his childhood home in Texas was firm. The house carried memories that were more painful than comforting. He and his wife, Cassandra, traveled from New York to meet potential buyers, but their trip quickly took an unexpected turn.
While inspecting the house, Cassandra stumbled upon an old childhood photo album tucked away in a dusty corner. “Ben, you were such an adorable child,” she teased, flipping through pages of his younger days. “Are you sure you want to sell this place? It’s your history.”
Ben’s response was cold. “There’s no history here worth keeping, Cassandra. Mom and I were never close. She never even told me about my father. I spent my childhood watching other kids play baseball with their dads while I sat alone. I stopped asking eventually. She never gave me answers.”
Cassandra placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice soft. “She must have had her reasons, Ben. Raising you alone couldn’t have been easy.”
“Maybe,” Ben replied curtly. “But it doesn’t matter now.”