My chest tightened as panic spread through me. “I’ve never received anything. Not once.”
The color drained from his face.
“Claire,” he said slowly, “are you telling me you never got a single payment?”
I shook my head, my hands trembling as I held my newborn closer.
Before he could respond, the door flew open.
My husband, Mark, and his mother, Vivian, walked in laughing, arms full of glossy shopping bags from luxury stores I’d only ever seen in magazines. They looked carefree, pleased with themselves.
Until they saw my grandfather.
They stopped short.
Mark’s smile vanished. Vivian’s grip tightened around the bags. The air in the room shifted so suddenly it felt hard to breathe.
My grandfather turned toward them, his voice calm in a way that made my skin prickle.
“Mark. Vivian,” he said. “I have a question.”
Neither of them spoke.
“Where,” Grandpa continued, “has the money I’ve been sending my granddaughter been going?”
Silence.
I could hear my baby breathing. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
“Money?” Mark finally said, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “What money?”
My grandfather straightened, his expression darkening.
“Don’t insult me,” he said. “Claire has received nothing. Not a single dollar.”
Vivian’s eyes darted toward the door, as if she were calculating how fast she could leave.
“For three years,” Grandpa went on evenly, “I sent that money so Claire could build a secure future. A home. Savings. Stability for moments like this.”
His gaze dropped to the shopping bags.
“And instead,” he said quietly, “you built one for yourselves.”
Vivian rushed to speak. “Edward, there must be some kind of mistake. A banking error—”
“There is no mistake,” Grandpa snapped. “The funds went into an account under Mark’s name. One Claire was never allowed to access.”
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