Chapter 3: The Price of Love

From cloud nine to rock bottom—the man managed a dry smile. "We’ll visit your adoptive father later."

His voice was tight, his eyes darting for an escape route. The tension in the room was so thick it was almost funny.

"I know my parents are just afraid to bother my dad. It’s fine. Today, with everyone watching, let’s go to my house together—the five of us, like a real family."

As I spoke, I scanned the audience. Sure enough, the buzz-cut guy had already disappeared. When I pulled Mr. Lambert on stage, we exchanged a knowing look.

The man’s smile looked strained, like he was in pain. They owed the gratitude, but the money... that was still supposed to go to my old man.

"Dad, Mom, I know you can’t wait. Don’t worry, the reporters will go with us."

I stepped forward, linking arms with both of them, flashing a calm smile at the camera. Inside, I braced myself.

This was just the beginning. If they wanted to guilt-trip me, I’d show them how it’s really done.

I led the reporters and my birth parents, a whole crowd, back to my familiar little home.

The house wasn’t big, but my dad had poured his life savings into buying it.

It was a modest two-bedroom on the edge of the city. The porch creaked from too many winters, the lawn was patchy but neat. This place was Dad’s pride and joy—the scent of old wood and fresh-cut grass always lingered in the air.

I rang the doorbell, nerves buzzing in my fingertips.

"Coming, coming."

Dad’s voice was muffled, warm as always. When he opened the door and saw all those people, he looked like a deer in headlights.

His eyes went wide, eyebrows shooting up. He wiped his hands on his jeans, uncertain what to do with the strangers and cameras crowding his doorway.

"Sir, thank you for raising my daughter!" My birth mother rushed over, fake-crying as she tried to kneel.

She hit the linoleum hard, sobbing into her hands. Camera flashes lit up the hallway, nearly blinding everyone.

"Get up, what are you doing?" Dad hurried over, pulling her up.

His hands were gentle but strong, lifting her like she weighed nothing. He looked at me, confusion and worry flickering across his face. I felt my stomach knot.

"Sir, thank you for your selflessness. Otherwise..." Birth mother kept crying, about to make him a saint. I grabbed her arm and yanked her upright before she could milk it any further.

I shot her a sharp look—enough. This wasn’t her show.

"Dad, my birth parents are so grateful to you, they plan to repay you for raising me all these years." I grabbed the check from my birth father’s hand and pressed it into Dad’s.

The check was crisp, ink still fresh. I pushed it into Dad’s callused palm, watching his face go from shock to discomfort in a heartbeat.

"I can’t accept this."

His voice was soft, almost pleading. I knew Dad would never take the money, but I forced it into his hand anyway. "Take it, or their conscience won’t be at ease."

"What a beautiful moment—the adoptive father receives gratitude and compensation, the birth family is reunited. Guess all my hard work paid off." Mr. Lambert chimed in at just the right time, smarmy as ever.

His voice oozed satisfaction, like he’d just orchestrated a Hallmark movie ending. Outside, I could hear neighbors murmuring, the local news van rumbling at the curb.

His words turned the tide instantly. I heard people whispering below, the mood shifting.

"Scored a daughter and a fat check—not bad."

"More than not bad—it’s a win."

"Still, the one who raised her is closer. Her parents are so poor, but she gives the money to her adoptive dad who owns a house."

The words burned, but I kept my chin up. I knew the truth.

For a moment, my mind went blank. I felt the weight of everything all at once.

Dad’s face turned red. You know, there’s something about fathers and daughters—a bond you can’t explain. Growing up with him, he never remarried, and he even put the house in my name.

I remembered how he’d tuck me in at night, humming off-key, chasing away my nightmares with those corny dad jokes. He was my whole world.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Dad pulled me behind him, solid as a mountain.

He squared his shoulders, voice steady as a rock. "I won’t take this money. Having Autumn as a daughter is God’s blessing to me. She’s always been so good. If I took this money, wouldn’t I be selling my daughter?" The words hit me hard—I bit my lip, tears pricking my eyes.

My so-called birth parents perked up, eyes lighting up, ready to snatch the check back.

They surged forward, hands out, but Dad held tight, gentle but unbreakable.

"No need to give me this money. If you really want to thank this old man, give the money to Autumn. She’s a girl—she should have something of her own."

Dad stuffed the check back into my hand, his palm rough but warm.

The paper crinkled between us. His eyes were soft, shining with pride. I swallowed, overwhelmed.

"Dad, I don’t want this money."

My voice barely carried. I just wanted his love, his quiet strength, nothing else.

"Ah, Autumn, your dad’s giving it to you, just take it. We’re all family now."

Birth mother tried to cut in quick. I knew what she was thinking: if the money was with me, she’d find a way to get it back.

Her eyes flicked from the check to me, calculating. I clutched it tight, not budging.

"I don’t want it. If you don’t want it, just throw it away." That kind of money could change Dad’s life, but I couldn’t take it.

I looked at him, pleading with my eyes. He shook his head, stubborn as always.

"Then let’s donate it—"

The room went dead silent, even Mr. Lambert was caught off guard.

You could hear a pin drop. The cameras stopped whirring, and even the neighbors outside seemed to freeze.

"I’m just an old man. I can’t spend much. Autumn’s grown up. It’s her choice whether she goes back to her birth family or stays with me. I respect that. As long as she wants to come back, my door’s always open." Dad paused, lost in thought.

His voice thickened with memory, eyes misty. "When I first saw Autumn, she was like a kitten, huddled by a dumpster, skin blue and purple from the cold. I thought, how pitiful. But Autumn grew up safe. Let’s donate this money to help abandoned girls, so this won’t happen again. It’ll be a blessing for my Autumn."

My tears wouldn’t stop. I’m no saint, but in Dad’s eyes, I was always a good daughter. He was always kinder than I could ever imagine.

I wiped my cheeks, heart swelling with gratitude and love. Dad was always my hero.

Everyone was stunned, whispering about what a good man he was. I felt a quiet pride.

I saw reporters scribbling notes, people nodding, some dabbing at their eyes. For once, the spotlight felt warm.