Growing Up
Years passed. Emily grew up quiet, observant, and smart. She loved puzzles and mystery books, did well in school, never broke curfew. She carried a seriousness beyond her years, as if holding something heavier than a child should.
When she left for college, I cried harder than I had at her parents’ funeral. That’s not an exaggeration. You don’t realize how much life someone brings into a house until it’s gone.
Four years later, she returned home, wanting to save money for her own place. She worked as a paralegal at a small legal research firm, already dreaming of clerking someday.
At 25, she was brilliant, independent, yet still the little girl who used to fall asleep on my shoulder during snowstorms.
We settled into a rhythm again—dinners at six, conversations about odd cases and legal trivia. I cherished every moment.
But a few weeks ago, right before the anniversary of her family’s death, something shifted. She grew quieter, focused, as if her mind was elsewhere.
She began asking questions that scratched at old wounds:
“Grandpa, do you remember what time they left that night?” “Was anyone else supposed to be on that road?” “Did the police ever follow up with you more than once?”
At first, I thought it was curiosity, maybe therapy. But the way she looked at me—measuring my answers—made my skin crawl.
