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

He simply lifted one hand and made a small gesture toward the driver.

The car door opened.

That door didn’t just open into a warm backseat.

It opened into the first exit I’d seen in months.

“Get in,” Grandpa Robert said.

My legs felt disconnected from my body as I climbed into the sedan with Noah pressed close. Warm air wrapped around me, smelling faintly of leather and some expensive cologne I couldn’t name. Noah made a soft sound and relaxed against my chest.

The bicycle was left behind in the snow.

Something about that—leaving it there like a discarded version of myself—made my eyes burn.

Grandpa Robert didn’t ask anything right away.

He stared out the window as we pulled away from the curb, jaw tight, hands folded as if he was holding something back.

The silence was worse than interrogation. It gave my mind room to spiral.

If he went to my parents’ house, they’d spin a story. They always did. They’d tell him I was unstable. Postpartum. Overreacting. Grateful but “confused.”

They were very good at sounding reasonable.

They were even better at making me sound irrational.

Finally, Grandpa Robert spoke without looking at me.

“Ava,” he said, voice low. “This isn’t just about the Mercedes, is it?”

I froze.

Noah’s warmth against me anchored me in place, but fear still climbed my spine.

If I told the truth, my parents could retaliate. They could call Lucas overseas. They could tell him I was unsafe. They could threaten custody. They’d already hinted at it whenever I pushed back.

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