“That money was for my tuition,” I said. “Grandma and Grandpa saved it.”
My mom leaned forward, not even trying to soften the blow. “Because he’s the one who really matters in this family.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just looked at my dad—one last chance for him to say it was wrong—and he stared at the screen. In that moment, I understood the rules: Jason was the headline; I was the fine print.
I walked out, sat in my car, and called the only person who had never treated me like an afterthought—my grandmother, Ruth.
“Grandma,” I said, voice shaking, “they took it. All of it. One hundred fifty-six thousand.”
Ruth went quiet for a beat. Then she said, steady as stone, “Tell me everything.”
I told her the transfer date, the account name, and my mother’s exact words. Ruth didn’t gasp or curse.
She asked for Jason’s wedding schedule and venue address. When I finished, she said, “I’m going to handle this. You don’t need to argue with them.”
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