My father sent Grandma one message from what looked like a rooftop restaurant, a glass of wine visible at the edge of the frame. Hope you’ve calmed down. We’ll discuss your behavior when we return.
Grandma read it once, her face entirely unreadable, and handed me the phone. “Save that,” she said, and I did, screenshotting it with the timestamp still visible, some instinct telling me it would matter later.
When their return flight landed, I waited near the arrivals doors with Mr. Grant beside me, the gray folder resting against his leg. My father came through first, laughing at something on his phone, tan and relaxed in a way that made something cold settle in my chest. My mother followed with shopping bags looped over both wrists. Aunt Monica was showing my cousins a video from the trip on her phone, all three of them laughing.
Then they saw us.
