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

Too large.

My mother had told me it was for groceries, diapers, household expenses.

But the numbers didn’t match.

And I’d been too sleep-deprived, too isolated, too ashamed to confront it.

As I spoke, my voice got stronger. Each detail made the situation feel less like a fog and more like a pattern.

Grandpa Robert listened without interrupting.

When I finished, he said one thing to the driver.

“Head to the police station.”

The words hit me like a slap.

My panic flared. “Grandpa—wait. Please.”

He turned, calm and terrifying. “What.”

“I—” My throat tightened. “They’re my parents. If we do this… they’ll—Lucas… Noah…”

He reached over and closed his hand around mine—firm, grounding.

“Ava,” he said, voice like stone. “They are using the word family as a shield while stealing the future of you and Noah.”

I blinked hard.

“This is no longer a family matter,” he continued. “As you said—this is a crime.”

Then, softer—still firm, but human:

“And from this moment on, you and Noah are under my protection.”

Something inside me cracked open.

Not weakness.

Relief.

The kind that makes you realize how long you’ve been holding your breath.

I nodded once.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s go.”

The police station was fluorescent-lit and smelled like old coffee and winter coats.

If Grandpa Robert hadn’t been beside me, I might have turned around at the entrance and run—back to the familiar misery, back to the control, back to the place where at least I knew how to survive.

But he didn’t give me room to retreat.

Before we even walked in, Grandpa Robert made a call in the car, voice clipped and precise. When he hung up, he looked at me.

“I just spoke to your lawyer,” he said. “He’ll meet us here.”

My lawyer.

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