Two weeks later, I was back home. I moved slowly, one hand instinctively guarding my stitches—but I was alive.
It was a quiet Saturday morning. The kitchen smelled of blueberry pancakes and warm maple syrup. Lily balanced on a chair beside me, carefully stirring the batter, while Lucas gleefully banged his spoon against his high-chair tray.
Then came the knock.
Three sharp, deliberate raps.
My heart jumped. If it was my parents—here to demand an explanation for why the mortgage payment hadn’t gone through—I wasn’t sure I had the strength to face them.
I peered through the peephole.
The man standing there was someone I hadn’t seen in three years. Silver hair, perfectly groomed. A charcoal wool coat. A posture so rigid it looked like it could support a bridge.
Judge Thomas Carver.
My grandfather.
Growing up, my parents had always had excuses for his absence. He’s too busy. He travels constantly. He’s difficult.
I opened the door.
“Grandpa?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug—so tight I sucked in a breath.
“Careful,” he murmured, releasing me immediately. “Eleanor told me.”
Aunt Eleanor. My mother’s estranged sister. The family’s so-called black sheep—the one who refused to follow their rules.
“Grandpa, I—”
“You don’t need to explain,” he interrupted, his voice heavy with emotion. “But I do need you to come somewhere with me.”