There was a long silence before she laughed nervously. “Mom deserves a break, and Melissa always exaggerates,” she said, dismissing the severity of what had happened.
“Your sister has a fractured pelvis and cannot lift her own child,” my grandfather answered, his tone steady but firm.
Lauren muttered something about being busy with her own children and promised to check in later before ending the call abruptly. My grandfather set the phone down and shook his head once, as if a private suspicion had just been confirmed.
The next morning he returned with an attorney named David Miller, who spoke plainly about protecting myself in case my mother reacted unpredictably. “You should keep the transfer cancelled, document every payment you made, and allow your grandfather to request the official property records,” he advised, emphasizing that preparation was not revenge but precaution.
Two weeks later, I left the hospital with a walker, a shoulder sling, and strict instructions not to lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk. Jacob drove me home while the hired caregiver settled Owen into his bassinet, and for the first time since the accident I slept without jolting awake in panic.