I’m Johnny, 45, and my top priority has always been protecting my daughter, Stephanie.

She’s 14 now, but since her mom died ten years ago, I’ve been her dad, mom, and best friend.

When I got engaged to Ella, my girlfriend of three years, she and her four kids needed a place to live.

I made one thing clear: Stephanie keeps her big room with the private bathroom.

She’s had it since she was seven, and it’s full of memories of her mom.

Ella didn’t love the idea. She said it wasn’t “fair” and called it a “shrine,” but I stood firm.

She reluctantly agreed—at least, she said she did. The night they moved in, things were tense but civil.

I left early for work the next morning, planning to help unpack later. But when I came home,

I found Stephanie curled on the couch, red-eyed.

She moved me, Dad,” she whispered.

“My stuff’s in the basement.”

I ran downstairs and saw her things dumped in a heap—her art supplies,

her mom’s jewelry box—tossed like trash.

Upstairs, Ella’s daughters were already settled into Stephanie’s room, wearing her clothes and jumping on her mom’s quilt.

When I confronted Ella,

she claimed it was “fair” for her girls to have the bigger room.

“Your daughter needs to learn she’s not the center of the universe,” she said.

That was it.

I took off my engagement ring and ended it on the spot.