The first rains of the season came early that morning. A gentle drizzle tapped rhythmically against Cinderella's windows, casting a soft melody over her apartment. She stood by the window, a warm cup of tea in hand, watching the gray sky paint the world in hues of silver and melancholy. The city outside bustled with life, unaware of the quiet storm within her heart.
Her graduation was just a week behind her. Friends had thrown congratulatory messages her way, her social media flooded with proud comments, and her phone had buzzed endlessly with well-wishes. She had made it. She had survived the Harper household, graduated with honors, and was living independently. On the surface, everything seemed perfect. But beneath it all, there lingered a question she had tried to bury for far too long: Had she truly forgiven her father?
Desmond had done all the right things in the past year. He had taken accountability, initiated the investigation into Rebecca, and had been a steady presence in her life since. He had supported her quietly, given her space, never demanded anything. But something still held her back. She loved him, yes—but had she truly forgiven him?
The knock at the door startled her. She set her cup down and opened it to find Desmond standing there, holding a small bouquet of white tulips.
"Good morning, Dad," she greeted, offering a small smile.
He returned the gesture. "I thought I'd drop by... if you're not busy."
She stepped aside to let him in. He looked around the apartment—simple, warm, filled with personality. Photos of her and friends, colorful cushions, her books stacked neatly in a corner shelf.
"I like what you've done with the place," he said, setting the flowers down on the dining table.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping tea. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't easy either.
"You've come a long way," he said finally. "I'm proud of you."
She looked at him, really looked. The man who had once been so lost in grief and confusion, who had failed to protect her, had changed. He looked older now, softer. And sadder.
"Dad," she began slowly, her voice gentle. "There's something I need to ask you."
He set his cup down and met her gaze. "Anything."
"Why didn't you believe me back then? When I told you things weren't right... why did you let her twist everything?"
Desmond's shoulders sagged. He didn't rush to answer. Instead, he took a deep breath, as though summoning courage.
"Because I was a coward," he said finally. "I was so afraid of losing control again... of losing someone else after your mother... that I let Rebecca do what she pleased. I convinced myself she was keeping things together, when in reality, she was tearing us apart. I failed you, and I know it. And I've regretted it every single day."
Tears welled in Cinderella's eyes. Hearing him say it didn't erase the pain—but it acknowledged it.
"I needed to hear that," she whispered. "For so long, I thought maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was overreacting. But I wasn't. I was just a kid who needed her dad."
Desmond reached for her hand. "You were right. And you were incredibly brave. You still are."
There was a pause—a sacred, heavy silence between them. Then, with a trembling breath, she nodded.
"I forgive you, Dad. Not because what happened doesn't matter, but because I need to let go of the weight. I need peace. And I want us to have a real relationship."
His eyes brimmed with tears. He stood slowly, walking around the table to wrap her in a hug. It wasn't just a hug—it was the rebuilding of a bond broken years ago. And in that embrace, something fragile but unbreakable took root: healing.
---
Later that evening, Cinderella sat on her balcony, wrapped in a blanket, phone in hand. She dialed Silvester.
"Hey," he answered, his voice warm as always.
"I forgave him," she said softly. "I finally forgave Dad."
Silvester was silent for a moment. Then, "I'm proud of you, Cindy. That's huge."
"It was time. I think I've been waiting for him to say the right words, and today... he finally did."
"That takes strength. You're amazing, you know that?"
She smiled. "So you keep saying."
"Because it's true."
They stayed on the line, sharing stories, laughter, and quiet moments until the sky turned dark and the stars blinked awake. Somewhere deep inside, Cinderella felt a lightness she hadn't felt in years.
Forgiveness wasn't for Desmond. It was for her.
And now that she had given herself that gift, the path ahead seemed just a little clearer.
---
The next morning, Cinderella awoke to birds chirping and sunbeams sneaking through the curtains. She got dressed and decided to visit the cemetery—Caroline's grave. It had been months since her last visit.
With a bouquet of lilies in hand, she walked the familiar path. The cemetery was quiet, peaceful. She found the marble headstone and knelt beside it.
"Hi, Mom," she whispered, placing the flowers down. "I did it. I forgave him. I think you'd be proud."
The wind blew softly, rustling the trees. She imagined it was her mother's way of answering.
"I miss you. Every day. But I'm okay now. I'm really okay."
She sat for a while, talking about her graduation, her new place, Silvester, and the journey that had brought her here. There were tears, but they were healing, not haunting.
As she stood to leave, she looked back one last time.
"I love you, Mom. And I'm going to live a life you'd be proud of. I promise."
She walked away, her steps light.
The last test had come.
And she had passed with grace.
Later that night…
The apartment was quiet, bathed in soft golden lamplight as Cinderella curled up on the couch with an old photo album. She hadn't opened it in years—not since her mother died. The leather cover creaked as she flipped it open, revealing snapshots of a happier time.
There was one photo that made her stop. Her younger self, no older than ten, sat between Desmond and Caroline on a park bench, both parents smiling, their faces glowing in the sunlight. Caroline's arm was wrapped around Cinderella's shoulders while Desmond held a melting ice cream cone, caught mid-laughter.
She traced the photo with her fingertips, smiling through the tears.
A knock broke the silence.
Frowning slightly, she set the album aside and padded to the door, unlocking it.
Silvester stood there.
"Hey," he said, his voice low, gentle.
"Hey," she echoed, surprised. "I didn't expect you tonight."
"I know," he smiled softly, "but I had a feeling you might need company."
She didn't respond with words. Instead, she stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him, and held on.
He hugged her tightly. "I brought something."
She looked up as he held out a small paper bag. Inside was a plastic container—her favorite homemade pasta, made just the way she liked it.
"You remembered," she whispered.
"I always remember what matters."
They sat on the floor of her living room, eating from the same container, sharing quiet laughter, glances, and stories. When they were done, she lay her head against his shoulder.
"I visited my mom today," she said softly.
"How did it feel?"
"Like she was listening. Like she finally saw me becoming who she hoped I'd be."
"You're more than she could have dreamed of," he murmured. "You've been through so much, and yet... here you are."
She looked up at him. "I feel lighter."
"You look it."
He leaned in, brushing a kiss across her forehead. "I know things haven't been easy. But I hope you know I'm not going anywhere."
She smiled faintly. "I know. That's why it's safe to finally let go."
They sat together in the warm glow of her apartment, no more words needed between them. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the clouds had parted, revealing a moonlit sky.
A new chapter was beginning.
And for the first time, Cinderella was ready.