“This isn’t just about the car, is it?”
I looked down at Noah.
Fear rose again. My family had already painted me as unstable after giving birth. If I spoke, they would use it against me.
But my grandfather’s eyes didn’t doubt me.
They understood.
“No,” I said. “It’s not just the car… what they’re doing is wrong.”
And then I told him everything.
The car. My mother taking my mail. My bank card “for convenience.” The missing money. The excuses.
The more I spoke, the steadier I became.
He listened carefully.
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