“My aunt says I’m being dramatic,” she whispered. “But my stepdad keeps asking about the settlement money from my accident.”
I saw myself in the way she held the folder like a shield.
I did not tell her what to do. I did not promise her everything would be fine. I gave her the name of a legal aid clinic, explained which questions to ask, and told her to keep copies of every document somewhere safe.
Before she left, she asked, “Does protecting yourself always make people angry?”
I thought about my father in the breakfast room. My mother’s cold eyes. Grant’s accusation. Nora at the front door. My grandfather’s careful handwriting.
“Not always,” I said. “Only the people who were counting on you not to.”
That night, I went home, unlocked my condo, and placed my keys in the blue ceramic bowl beside the door. The city lights glowed beyond the windows. My life was quiet, ordinary, and mine.
