For twelve years, every birthday gift I sent my stepdaughter Chloe was returned unopened.
I thought she hated me.
When I married her father, Chloe was seventeen and still grieving her mother. I never tried to replace her. I simply wanted to be there for her.
But after she left for college, she stopped coming home and refused my calls.
Her father told me Chloe couldn’t stand having me in the house and believed he had chosen me over her.
Still, every year I sent her a gift.
Every one came back.
After twelve years, I finally stopped.
Three days later, a huge box arrived from Chloe.
Inside were twelve birthday gifts—and dozens of letters she’d written to me over the years.
They all said things like, “I hope you’re okay,” and “Maybe we could talk.”
Every letter had been returned to her.
Then I noticed the handwriting on the envelopes.
It was David’s.
My husband had been sending everything back.
He confessed that years earlier, he had told Chloe I didn’t want her around. He feared that if we became close, he would lose one of us.
For twelve years, he had kept us apart.
That night, David finally gave me Chloe’s real phone number.
I called.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” I whispered. “I’m here.”
After a long silence, Chloe began crying.
“I thought you hated me.”
“I thought you hated me too.”
She asked if she could come home that weekend.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
Two weeks later, Chloe walked through my door holding the cookbook I’d once sent her.
“I thought maybe we could bake something together.”
For years, I thought Chloe had built a wall between us.
I finally learned that my husband had been the one keeping the door locked.