Difficult meant wondering why Grandpa’s letters stopped coming.
Difficult meant becoming a forensic accountant instead of marrying rich and staying grateful.
My fiancé, Daniel, stepped forward, fury beneath his calm expression, but I touched his sleeve.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Not yet.”
Mom laughed softly. “Still dramatic. Even today.”
Then the door opened.
My grandfather entered slowly, leaning on his black cane, white hair neatly combed, his navy suit older than my sisters’ marriages but cleaner than my parents’ consciences. At eighty-one, Grandpa Arthur still had eyes that could silence a room.
He looked at my mother. “Margaret, you said what?”
Mom’s expression tightened. “This is family business.”
“I am family,” he said.
Dad stepped forward. “Arthur, don’t make a scene.”
Grandpa ignored him and turned to me, reaching for my hand.
“I’ll walk you,” he said.
My throat tightened. “Grandpa…”
“You were never a regret, Emma.” His thumb pressed into my palm. “You were the only one who came back for the truth.”
Mom’s smile flickered.
