Three years after going to prison, I came home to find my father gone and my home no longer mine

You are not going to believe the absolute living hell that I have been going through for the past three years.

I just got out of jail for a robbery that I had nothing to do with. After three years behind bars, I was finally released and immediately hopped on a bus to my old family home. Wearing second-hand clothing and carrying a worn-out backpack, I longed to see my father, who I knew would believe I was innocent. But when I arrived, everything looked different. The cozy house I grew up in had been turned into an expensive, sterile gray building with a digital lock. When I knocked on the door, my stepmother, Reagan, answered and stared at me like I was dirt.

Before I could even open my mouth, she hit me with it: my dad had died of cancer a year ago.

I just stood there, completely numb. I asked her why the hell nobody had bothered to contact the prison or even send a letter. She just gave me this smug, cold smile.

“Finnley, you went to prison for stealing his business,” she said. “Do you really think he wanted you ruining his funeral?”