My grandfather raised me by himself after my parents passed away. Just two weeks after his funeral, I discovered that he had been lying to me my entire life.

In the days that followed, the house filled with whispers—people murmuring about the drunk driver who k*lled them, adults muttering about what should happen to me.

The word “foster care” floated around the living room like a cold draft. Nothing terrified me more. I thought I was going to be taken away forever.

But Grandpa saved me.

At sixty-five years old, with aching knees and a bad back, he stepped into the room where everyone was discussing my fate. He slammed his hand on the coffee table and declared:

“She’s coming with me. End of story.”

From that moment, Grandpa became my entire world.

He gave me his big bedroom and moved into the smaller one. He watched YouTube videos to learn how to braid my hair, packed my lunch every day, attended every school play, and sat through every parent-teacher meeting.