Carrying my newborn in my arms, I didn’t expect my grandpa to ask me this: “I gave you a car, right?”

The bike tilted slightly, and I caught it before it fell. Noah blinked at the sudden stillness, his tiny hands tightening against my sweater.

I hadn’t seen Grandpa Robert Collins in almost a year. Not since Noah was born. Not since Lucas got deployed. Not since I moved back into my parents’ house “temporarily” because “family helps family.”

My parents’ version of help came with strings. Chains, really.

Grandpa Robert’s version came with leverage.

He stared at the bicycle, then at the baby in my arms, then back to my face.

His gaze hardened.

I tried to speak, but my throat was tight. Fear had a familiar grip on me—the old fear of saying the wrong thing and paying for it later.

Still, something inside me—something small and stubborn—refused to lie.

I swallowed.

“I only have this bicycle,” I said, voice trembling. “Chloe is the one driving the Mercedes.”

Chloe was my younger sister. Twenty-six. Pretty in that effortless way that made people want to excuse her behavior. Loud when she wanted attention, helpless when she wanted money, cruel when she wanted control.

Grandpa Robert’s expression changed so fast it almost scared me.

The calm vanished.

A deep fury settled in his eyes like a door slamming shut.

He didn’t ask for clarification.

He didn’t ask if I was “sure.”

He didn’t ask why.

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