Every January for the seven years following the loss of my daughter, a transfer of $40,000 went to her husband to ensure my granddaughter was provided for. That all changed one afternoon when my seven-year-old granddaughter took me aside to whisper, “Grandpa, please stop giving Dad money. Follow him one day, and you’ll see why.”
Fulfilling my daughter’s dying wish was all I believed I was doing.
Being my only child, Laura had extracted a single promise from me right before her passing.
“Dad, whatever happens, make sure Emma is safe.”
A horrific crash on Highway 24 claimed Laura’s life seven years ago.
Because the vehicle had suffered such severe fire damage, law enforcement informed us that holding a viewing was impossible. Throughout the funeral services, Mark Stevens, my son-in-law, remained a steadfast presence right next to me and my wife, Eleanor.
What we were given instead was a sealed urn.
Eleanor passed away a mere six months after that.
Medical professionals labeled her cause of death as cardiac arrest.
To me, it was simply a fatal case of heartbreak.
Following those dual tragedies, my universe shrank to an agonizingly tiny size. Emma and my family grocery store, Miller’s Corner Market, were the only things left in my life.
When January rolled around each year, I made sure $40,000 was wired to Mark.
Schooling.
Meals.
Wardrobe.
Basically, anything my granddaughter required.
Or, at the very least, that was the assumption I operated under.
On alternating Saturdays, taking Emma out for ice cream was our tradition. We would sit under our usual oak tree as she caught me up on her classes, always enjoying her favorite strawberry swirl.
During that particular September afternoon outing, the smile vanished entirely from her face right after she shared the news of an A she earned on a spelling test.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
Glancing nervously around the area, she grabbed hold of my sleeve.
“Please stop sending Dad money.”
I froze completely in place.
“What?”
“The money you give him. Don’t send it anymore.”
Dropping my tone to a hush, I spoke.
“Emma, that money is for you.”
A quick shake of her head was her response.
“No, Grandpa.”
An undeniable wave of fear washed over me just from the specific tone she used.
“Is your father hurting you?”
The grip she had on my shirt sleeve grew even tighter.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“He’ll get angry.”
A sickening knot formed deep in my stomach.
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