My Firefighter Father Chose Strangers,Now He Wants Me Back

"Tch, looks all put-together, but what a cold heart. Without her dad, where would she be today?"

"Exactly. I heard her dad even adopted an orphan later on. What a good man, stuck with a daughter like that..."

The murmurs washed over me. I watched my father's face settle into that expression again—that almost noble look of resolute suffering—and my feet stopped dead.

"Home?"

I repeated the word under my breath, then let out a soft laugh. It came out hollow, scraped raw.

"That home... didn't it fall apart twenty years ago? The moment you chose to 'avoid the appearance of favoritism'?"

I used to believe time could dull everything. Even the searing heat and the screams from that fire. After all, it had been a full decade since I'd last jolted awake at midnight, those agonized cries no longer ringing in my ears.

Twenty years ago, I was eight. My world was small—just my two brothers who adored me, and my grandmother who always held me close. My parents were always rushing somewhere, so Grandma's arms and my brothers' laughter became all the warmth and light I knew.

Until that fire swallowed everything.

That day, Grandma pulled us tight against her. The smoke was so thick we couldn't keep our eyes open. Waves of heat rolled over us. But her voice kept trembling out reassurances:

"Don't be scared. Daddy will be back soon... He's a firefighter. He'll come save us."

She was right. Dad did come. Just not to save us.

I'll never forget the moment he burst through the door. His eyes beneath that helmet—hard as iron. Grandma grabbed his sleeve like it was a lifeline, using every bit of strength she had left:

"Take the children first! Jennifer's still running a fever..."

"Mom, I'm a firefighter. There are people trapped upstairs. I have to get them first." Dad's voice cut through the roar of the flames, calm. Almost cold. "You're my family. I can't show favoritism. You need to understand—I have to avoid even the appearance of it."

Grandma's hands—those same hands that always stroked my hair—were gently, firmly pushed away.

He turned and vanished into the smoke. He never looked back. Not once.

Twenty years, and I still can't understand—

Aren't family members part of "the people" too?

Do our lives... not even deserve to be chosen?

He was the one who abandoned us back then. And now he comes looking for me—what right does he have?!

My phone buzzed, yanking me back to the present.

Hugh Lawrence's voice came through the line: "Ms. Simmons, you're trending! They're calling you ungrateful—a backstabber! The exhibition's being boycotted, and the sponsors are getting nervous. Should we try to control the narrative?"

"Not yet. I need you to find someone for me first. I'll send you the details."

I hung up. The screen kept lighting up, each notification more glaring than the last.

#Famous artist Jennifer Simmons refuses to acknowledge hero father# (VIRAL)

#Internet outraged—boycott the ungrateful artist#

#Artistic prodigy's image collapses#

Every accusation online was another verdict against me. Every ounce of sympathy went to my hero father. People who claimed he'd pulled them from the flames appeared on camera, thanking him while sighing about how "difficult" I was being.

I tugged at the corner of my mouth, trying to smile. All I felt was a numb chill spreading through me.

Look at that. Even when he did something wrong, he's still the hero.

And me? I'm the one who got weighed and discarded—and now I'm supposed to stand trial on some moral high ground.

The doorbell cut through the silence.

I pulled the door open. My father stood at the front, the red recording light of a camera glaring from behind him. Beside him stood a man who looked about my age.

"Jennifer." My father's voice came out hoarse. "I finally found you." He reached out, already moving to grasp my arm.