My father sent Grandma one message from a rooftop restaurant.
“Hope you’ve calmed down. We’ll discuss your behavior when we return.”
Grandma read it once and handed me the phone.
“Save that,” she said.
When their return flight landed, I waited near the arrivals doors with Mr. Grant beside me.
Dad came through first, laughing.
Mom followed with shopping bags.
Aunt Monica was showing my cousins a video from the trip.
Then they saw us.
My father’s smile vanished.
My mother gripped her bag.
Aunt Monica stopped walking so suddenly that someone bumped into her suitcase.
Mr. Grant stepped forward and set the gray folder on my father’s luggage.
“Richard,” he said, “before you take another step, tell your mother why her $30,000 paid for six seats instead of seven.”
Dad glanced around the crowded terminal.
“This is a private family matter.”
“Not anymore.”
Mr. Grant opened the folder.
