I thought I was honoring my daughter’s last wish.
Laura was my only child. Before she died, she had made me promise one thing.
“Dad, whatever happens, make sure Emma is safe.”
Seven years ago, Laura was killed in a terrible accident on Highway 24.
The police told us the car had burned so badly there could be no viewing. My son-in-law, Mark Stevens, stood beside my wife Eleanor and me through the funeral.
We received a sealed urn.
Six months later, Eleanor died too.
The doctors called it cardiac arrest.
I called it heartbreak.
After that, my world became painfully small. I had my family grocery store, Miller’s Corner Market, and Emma.
Every January, I wired Mark $40,000.
School.
Food.
Clothes.
Whatever my granddaughter needed.
At least, that was what I believed.
Every other Saturday, I picked Emma up for ice cream. She always ordered strawberry swirl, and we sat beneath the same oak tree while she told me about school.
That September afternoon, she had just finished telling me about getting an A on her spelling test when her smile suddenly disappeared.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
She looked around before gripping my sleeve.
“Please stop sending Dad money.”
I froze.
“What?”
“The money you give him. Don’t send it anymore.”
I lowered my voice.
“Emma, that money is for you.”
She shook her head.
“No, Grandpa.”
Something about the way she said it frightened me.
“Is your father hurting you?”
Her fingers tightened around my sleeve.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“He’ll get angry.”
My stomach turned.
Then she leaned close enough that I could barely hear her.
“Just follow him one day.”
“Follow him where?”
She glanced toward the parking lot.
“Don’t tell him. Just watch where he goes.”
Before I could ask another question, Emma jumped from the bench.