My father’s head snapped toward her. “Monica.”
“You said she was old!”
“Stop.”
“You said she had enough money and would never check!”
“Stop talking.”
“You told me to use her card!”
My father grabbed her arm, his grip visibly too tight. Mr. Grant immediately stepped between them, calm and immovable.
“Let her go.”
My father released her arm. Aunt Monica covered her face with both hands, sobbing now, the sound drawing more curious glances from travelers moving past us toward the exits.
And in that moment, the entire family collapsed. Not loudly, not dramatically, not the way you’d imagine it playing out if someone had described this scene to you in advance. Just piece by piece, quietly, in the middle of a busy airport terminal, the truth finally becoming heavier than all the lies that had been holding everything upright.
I looked at my father. “Why?”
He didn’t answer.
