“I intend to take formal action,” he said, each word measured. “But it will pull you into it. I cannot proceed without your consent.”
He paused.
“Amanda. Tell me what you want.”
I didn’t hesitate, because the hesitation had already cost me too much time.
“They need to face what they did,” I said. “Without looking away.”
Grandpa nodded once, heavy and final.
“Very well,” he said. “Then we act at once.”
He reached into his coat, pulled out his phone, and made a call. The person on the other end picked up quickly, like Grandpa’s requests were never left waiting.
“Cooper,” Grandpa said, voice turning cold and commanding, “it’s me. I need you to move quickly on an urgent case.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“Yes,” he said. “The defendants are Jonathan Brooks and Karen Brooks. The victim is my granddaughter, Amanda. The amount totals $90,000.”
He looked straight at me as he continued, calm but edged with steel.
“We have clear records of the transfers. But I want definitive proof of how the money was used. Trace everything. Build a complete picture. I want evidence they cannot explain away.”
He listened for a moment.
“Yes. Proceed. Prepare what you need and serve it.”
When the call ended, Grandpa placed the phone down and exhaled.
“Cooper is the lawyer I trust most,” he said. “He’ll handle it. With this, the line has been drawn.”
In the days that followed, it stopped feeling like one explosive Thanksgiving and started feeling like a long, careful unraveling.
Cooper asked questions I hadn’t expected—quiet questions, precise ones. He wanted dates. He wanted timelines. He wanted to know exactly when I left, who I went to, what I had been told, what I remembered. He didn’t ask like he was doubting me. He asked like he was building a bridge strong enough for the truth to walk across.
I found myself going back through memories I had sealed away like boxes in a closet.
The night I was thrown out. The way my father wouldn’t meet my eyes. The way my mother stood behind him, arms crossed, already tired of me. The way Madison watched with a small, satisfied smile, as if she’d just won something.
The first night in my apartment, sitting on the floor because I didn’t have furniture yet, eating microwaved noodles with shaking hands.
The months of double shifts, the mornings when my bones felt heavy as stone, the afternoons when I smiled at clients while my stomach churned with exhaustion.
Cooper asked, gently, if I could reach out to Paige. I did. Paige answered on the first ring, and her voice softened as soon as she heard mine.
“I remember,” she said before I even finished explaining. “I remember you on my doorstep. I remember my mom being furious. You don’t have to convince me, Mandy.”
Hearing her call me that old nickname almost cracked me open.
We gathered what we could. Paige’s parents were willing to speak. Grandpa’s aide compiled the transfer history into a clean, undeniable record. Tyler told Cooper everything he’d seen—my mother showing off the kitchen like it was proof she’d “finally made it,” my father acting like the SUV was no big deal, Madison bragging about her trip like money grew on trees.
Each piece felt like another nail being driven into a coffin I hadn’t known my family had built.
A month later, my phone began ringing relentlessly.
Mom.
I declined once. It rang again. And again. Messages followed, piling up like desperate knocks at a locked door. When I finally answered, my mother’s sobbing voice exploded through the speaker.
“Amanda, please talk to Grandpa,” she cried. “Beg him to stop. We’re sorry. We’re repenting. If this continues, we’ll lose everything.”
The word family floated into the conversation like a weapon disguised as a plea.
Something in me went still.
“Repenting?” I asked, my voice strangely calm. “Is that what repenting sounds like?”
She stumbled. “What—Amanda—”
“You’re not shaking because you regret what you did,” I said. “You’re shaking because you’re afraid of losing your comfort and your image.”
Her breathing hitched.
“No,” she insisted, rushing. “We can talk this through. We can fix this.”
“Talk it through?” I repeated. “It’s too late for that. You deceived me for five years. You ignored me when I was desperate. This isn’t something you fix with tears now.”
Her voice sharpened, wounded pride trying to rise again.
“Amanda, how can you do this to your own family?”
