Part 9 — Grandpa’s Apology
I eventually showed Grandpa the letters.
All of them.
He sat at his kitchen table turning each page with trembling hands.
When he reached my mother’s handwriting—
He isn’t like his father.
—he stopped.
Then he cried.
Not the discreet tears he usually pretended were caused by dust or allergies.
He put his face in his hands and sobbed.
“I thought I was protecting you.”
I reached across the table.
