My father threw me out on my eighteenth birthday, stole the $3,000 I’d saved from working after school, and used it for my stepbrother. Nine days later, while I was digging through a restaurant dumpster for something to eat, a stranger in an expensive suit called my name and told me my supposedly dead grandfather had left me everything. But there was one condition nobody had warned me about.

“He took my savings when I turned eighteen.”

Eleanor’s expression tightened.

“I know.”

“How?”

“Your grandfather found out before he died.”

My anger, which had been simmering since the kitchen table at home, suddenly had somewhere to go. It moved through me hot and immediate.

“He knew?”

“He knew your father had taken money from you. He didn’t know whether you understood where it had gone.”

“It went to Tyler.”

“Your stepbrother?”

I nodded.

Eleanor lowered her eyes. “Your grandfather said he was sorry he couldn’t protect you sooner.”

The words should have comforted me. Instead, they made my chest ache.

Protection had become a complicated word. My father had used it to justify lies. My grandfather had used it to explain distance. Both men had claimed to be acting for my sake, and I was left standing in the middle of consequences neither had been willing to face.