When my daughter was born, I thought the most difficult part of motherhood would be the exhaustion—the sleepless nights, the constant feedings, the endless diapers. I never imagined the real shock would come from my own hospital room, when my grandfather, Edward, walked in holding a bouquet of flowers and wearing his familiar, gentle smile. Then he asked a question that made my heart nearly stop.
“My sweet Claire,” he said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear the way he did when I was little, “haven’t the two hundred and fifty thousand I send you each month been enough? You should never have had to struggle. I made sure to instruct your mother to see that it reached you.”
I stared at him in complete disbelief. “Grandpa… what money? I’ve never received anything.”
The warmth drained from his face, replaced by sudden shock. “Claire, I’ve been sending it ever since the day you got married. Are you telling me you never got a single payment?”
My chest tightened. “Not once.”
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