I knew something was wrong before she even spoke.

In her hand was a folded piece of paper.

“Grandpa,” she said softly, “we need to talk.”

My stomach tightened immediately.

I set down the coffee mug I’d been holding and asked, “What happened?”

Instead of answering, she walked to the dining room table and sat down carefully, almost formally, like someone preparing for a difficult conversation in an office instead of a home.

Then she slid the paper across the table toward me.

“I found this in an old storage box at work,” she said.

I frowned. “At work?”