Twenty minutes later, lying in a hospital bed with a fractured femur, two cracked ribs, and stitches above my eyebrow, I hired a licensed newborn nurse through my law firm’s private care network. Then I opened my banking app.
The monthly transfer to my mother was scheduled for midnight.
I canceled it.
Nine years. One hundred and eight payments. Four hundred eighty-six thousand dollars.
My finger hovered over the confirmation button for half a second. Then I tapped it.
Hours later, Grandpa walked into my hospital room, his silver cane striking the floor like a judge’s gavel. His eyes moved from my bandages to Eli sleeping in the nurse’s arms.
Then he said, “Your mother just called me from the cruise terminal, screaming that you destroyed the family.”
I smiled faintly.
“No,” I said. “I just stopped financing it.”
PART 2
Grandpa’s face did not soften. It sharpened.
