Instructions: Read the short story, and once you’re done (scroll to the end of the story), VOTE on whether this story should be turned into a novel or novella. And if you don’t think the author should keep going, we have a choice for that, too.
“Her Name was Grace” by Ginger Bea
My father is a quiet, unassuming man. It’s probably why he and my mother got along so well—she would lead, and he’d follow, content to let her take the reins. But there were times when he’d resist, showing a streak of rebellion that always made her smile.
I haven’t seen that smile in over ten years.
Growing up, I’d hear others say how lucky I was to have young parents—how they would understand me better, be cooler, and stay in my life longer. But for me, that wasn’t the case. My mother passed away at just 29, and it haunts me. I’m 23 now, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m destined for the same fate. The thought lingers, a shadow over my life.
My father hasn’t been on a date since she died. He spent the last decade pouring everything he had into raising me, and he did a damn good job. I’m about to finish my final year of university, I have a job, and I’m already planning for my Master’s. But with all my accomplishments at 23, what does a 39-year-old man do with the rest of his life?
Andrew Blackmon stands tall, with close-cropped curls and the hands of a man who’s spent years working hard. His face tells a story of courage, strength, and compassion.
Women notice him—how could they not? But he never lets it go to his head. Andrew Blackmon knows what he wants, even if he’s not sure how to get it yet. To catch his eye, a woman has to be confident, self-assured. If she doesn’t put herself first, there’s nothing for him to talk about.
I am his pride and joy, the apple of his eye. He invested his blood, sweat, and tears into raising me, and I’ve made sure none of it was wasted. I’m living proof of both his and Morgan’s hard work, though he could never take full credit. Even though he’s been raising me alone since I was 13, Morgan’s influence is still there. He remembers every detail of that time.
He and Morgan were childhood friends, neighbors who grew close over the years. It wasn’t until high school that he finally worked up the courage to ask her out. It took three tries, but she finally said yes.
By their sophomore year, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Then Morgan started pulling away, skipping school. Andrew was worried. He went to her house, only to be met with the news that he was going to be a father.
Her mother didn’t sugarcoat it, but he was relieved that Morgan was okay. That news lit a fire in him that’s never gone out. He became a mechanic, working long hours, saving every penny.
Morgan took on temp jobs until I was born. After that, she stayed home, and my father supported her decision completely. He didn’t trust just anyone with me, family or not. She devoted herself to raising me until the day she passed. My father and I will always be grateful for that. I miss her, but not as much as my father does—or so I thought.
Her name was Grace. I met her in my night class, Professional Communication. Our professor paired us up as partners, and she came to me since we were the only ones left. To say she was beautiful is an understatement.
Her rich, brown skin, slanted eyes, and high cheekbones gave her an elegance that was hard to ignore. She had the body of a cello, and she wore her hair in a high, natural bun. There was something magnetic about her, whether it was the way she walked with confidence or the way she brushed off the guys who tried to hit on her.
Grace had a no-nonsense attitude and a soft voice that could command a room when she wanted. The guys on campus called her “Judge Judy,” but she didn’t care. “It makes life easier to deal with,” she would say. I admired her. She was the only person I really connected with at school.
She was 27, a little older than me, and owned a small business that was just starting to grow. Her fashion sense was impeccable—blazers with denim, heels, and graphic tees. Grace was that girl, the one I looked up to—until I made a huge mistake.
The annual gala was something my father and I attended every year. This time, I invited Grace so I wouldn’t be bored. My mother used to keep me entertained at these events by introducing me to everyone she knew.
Since she passed, I’ve found myself standing on the sidelines, sipping cocktails, and trying not to yawn. I wore a simple spaghetti strap gown and high-heeled sandals that were already killing my feet. My hair was pinned up in a bun as I watched everyone interact.
I spotted my dad talking with someone from the gala’s board. He saw me and came over, looking sharp in his three-piece tux and a fresh shave.
“Having fun yet?” he asked.
“Trying,” I replied, taking another sip of my drink.
“Maybe you should talk to someone. You must know someone here.”
“I’ll wait for Grace,” I said, and then I heard her soft voice behind me.
“Did someone say my name?”
I turned around and gasped. Grace’s natural hair was pinned into a sleek beehive, with a long bang swept across her face. She wore a black silk slip dress with a high slit that showed off her toned thigh, and pointy black heels to match. A simple silver necklace and a diamond tennis bracelet completed her look.
“You look stunning,” I said, hugging her.
“And so do you,” she replied, returning the hug.
I heard my father clear his throat, and I turned to face him.
“Grace, this is my father. Dad, this is Grace,” I said, watching them closely.
Grace extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Blackmon.”
“Andrew. Please, call me Andrew,” he said, and his words echoed in my ears.
He never told any of my friends to call him by his first name. What was different tonight?
As Grace tried to pull her hand away, my father held onto it a moment longer, his eyes locking with hers. I glanced between them, feeling a surge of panic. Something was happening, and I needed to stop it.
“Grace, let’s get a drink,” I said, grabbing her other hand.
“Sure,” she said with a smile as we walked away.
I looked back and saw my father’s eyes following us—no, following Grace. As we waited at the bar, I replayed the scene in my head.
“I apologize for my dad. He’s never acted like that with anyone I’ve brought around.”
“It’s fine. I was more worried about you.”
“Why?”
“I imagine that was uncomfortable for you. I’m sorry if my being here caused you any discomfort. I really value our friendship. I don’t have many like it,” she said, stirring her drink before taking a sip.
I took a sip of mine too, letting her words sink in. I appreciated her acknowledging my feelings and telling me how much our friendship meant to her. I decided to let the moment pass… until I couldn’t.
After the gala, things seemed normal between Grace and me. But by the third month, she was constantly on her phone, grinning at texts and disappearing for phone calls. At first, I ignored it, but soon my instincts kicked in. Who was she talking to? Why was she hiding it from me? Was I no longer important? An avalanche of insecurities I hadn’t known existed started to bury me.
By the sixth month, Grace and I were growing apart. It wasn’t out of animosity; she was just around less and less, always busy. I found myself spending more time at home, but my father had become a stranger in our own house.
He was suddenly meticulous about his appearance, staying up late on calls that weren’t business-related. Out of the four outings I invited him to, he stood me up three times. I was furious. If he was seeing someone, why not introduce her to me? I was perfect—his greatest gift. Why would he hide anything from me?
I started avoiding him, leaving for class before he woke up, eating dinner in my room. He didn’t seem to notice, and that only fueled my anger. I was tired of being ignored by my own father.
One night, I came home late, thinking he was out on one of his dates. I got ready for bed, but as I settled in, I heard strange noises—light whimpers mixed with low grunts. I tried to ignore it, putting in my headphones and drifting off to sleep.
I woke up to the smell of bacon and the sound of Kelis screaming, “I HATE YOU SO MUCH RIGHT NOW” in my ears. I yanked out the headphones, and my heart stopped at the sound of laughter—feminine laughter.
I tried to convince myself it was someone else, that when I went downstairs, it wouldn’t be who I feared it was. I held my breath as I slipped on my slippers and crept down the stairs. When I entered the kitchen, I saw the last thing I wanted to see. I gasped, shattering the silence and creating a tension so thick it was suffocating.
“F-Felicity. I thought you—you’d left already,” my father stammered. I didn’t look at him. My eyes were locked on her—Grace. My vision blurred with tears as a deep sense of betrayal twisted in my gut. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her own eyes filling with tears. “I never meant—”
“Were you sorry when you had secret conversations with him? Were you sorry when he stood me up every time to be with you?” “Now, Felicity, don’t blame Grace for my actions,” my father said, his tone suddenly defensive.
“Oh, trust me, I’m holding you accountable too—for lying to me, for treating me like I’m nothing!” My voice escalated, a fury burning through me that neither of us had ever seen before. “You watch your tone! I’m still your father—” “Oh, shut up! You weren’t my father when you were fu—” The sharp sting of his hand against my face silenced me. I stood there, stunned, my cheek burning with pain and shame. Grace gasped, only adding to my humiliation.
My father straightened, trying to regain his composure. “Listen, I get that you’re upset, and I understand this is hard for you. But I won’t tolerate you disrespecting me or anyone I love.” The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Love? How could he love someone so close to my age? Someone I considered a friend? My eyes locked onto Grace, refusing to meet my father’s. Her natural curls framed a face full of remorse, her eyes pleading for forgiveness.
But I had none to give. “You can have him,” I said coldly, staring her down before turning on my heel and marching back to my room. I didn’t let myself cry. I didn’t let myself think. I just packed—a few clothes, my laptop, my emergency cash—and bolted down the stairs, ignoring Grace’s soft sobs. I didn’t even say goodbye.
“Felicity, we can talk about this!” my father called after me as I slammed the door behind me.
That was over a year ago.
In the months since, I let my anger consume me. My father tried reaching out, calling, texting, even suggesting we meet for dinner—with Grace. I agreed once, just to stand them up, savoring the petty satisfaction. But as time passed, his messages became more frequent, more desperate. He told me he loved me, that he was proud of me, that he’d always be there when I was ready to talk.
Grace reached out only once. She sent an email, heartfelt and maybe even sincere:
theeamazinggrace@gmail.com Subject: PLEASE READ! DON’T DELETE!
I know there’s nothing I can say to make you change your mind. But, I can only speak to your heart. I am truly sorry from the bottom of my heart for the pain of my deceit that I may have caused you. You saw me as your friend and a peer and I broke that bond between us. I know that.
Your father is an amazing man. He truly he is. He opened my eyes to things I never thought I could have imagined. Every conversation we had was not always intimate. He admires you. He spoke about how much you reminded him of your mother: Morgan. Yes I know the story of Morgan. I can tell he still loves her and misses her dearly. This is why I have chosen to separate myself from him. I care deeply for your father but, I care deeply about you.
I’m sorry for any harm and discomfort I may have cause you. I’ll always love the friendship we had.
Deepest apologies, Grace Kingsley
P.S Your father needs you more than ever. I won’t bother you guys again.
The email left me torn. I didn’t want to feel guilty, but I did. I knew I had a right to be angry, but… what did she mean by ‘your father needs you more than ever’? Was he sick? Or did he just need me to pick up the pieces after she broke his heart?
I scrolled through my father’s old messages, looking for clues, but found nothing. Still, her words kept replaying in my mind: ‘Your father needs you more than ever.’
I stood before the door of the place I once called home, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. My hand trembled as I raised it to knock. After the first two taps, a voice in my head urged me to turn and flee before the humiliation could set in.
“Felicity?” My father’s rich, warm voice stopped me in my tracks.
I turned to face him, noting how age had only added to his presence, softening his features in a way that made him even more striking.
“H-hi, Dad,” I stammered, managing a small, hesitant smile.
He pushed the door open wider, revealing a tiny bundle nestled against his shoulder, her face buried in the crook of his neck.
Seeing my gaze, he offered a gentle smile. “Felicity, meet your little sister.”
He carefully shifted the baby in his arms, turning her to face me. My breath caught as I saw a face that mirrored one I thought I’d never see again. When her eyes opened, they were a deep, familiar brown.
“What’s her name?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Her name… is Grace.”
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