After a while, she asked, “Do you ever regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“Standing up. Making it public. Choosing me.”
That last part almost undid me.
I thought about the library room. About Daniel’s forged signature. About the years of checks. About the younger me who thought love meant smoothing over every insult before it bruised the family image.
Then I said, “No. The only thing I regret is waiting so long to stop apologizing for being right.”
Her eyes filled.
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“I’m proud of you, Grandma.”
My throat tightened.
That word always got me. Not because it made me feel old. Because it made me feel chosen.
“I’m proud of you too, Grace,” I said. “You didn’t ask for money. You didn’t ask for power. You stayed. That matters more than both.”
After she left, I stood at the window and watched her drive away down the wet road.
