I held the table tightly.

Lily was Karen’s daughter.

She was twelve now.

Her voice cracked.

“Grandpa, are you really alive?”

Part 2

For several seconds, I could not answer.

Outside my window, rain tapped softly against the glass.

Inside, my chest felt as if someone had reopened an old wound with careful hands.

“Lily,” I said carefully, “who told you I died?”

“Mom did,” she whispered. “She said after Grandma passed, you got sick, then you were gone.”

I shut my eyes.

Karen had done more than forget me.

She had buried me while I was still alive.

“Where are you?”

“In my room,” Lily said. “I found an old Christmas card from you in Mom’s drawer. It had your handwriting. I searched your name online and found the sale record for the house.”

Clever girl.

Helen would have adored that.

“Does your mother know you called?”

“No. Please don’t tell her.”

“Are you safe?”

“Yes. I just wanted to know if I had a grandfather.”

That sentence shattered me more deeply than ten years of empty meals.

I told her the truth, but I did not make it cruel.

I told her I had been alone.

I told her I had called.

I told her I had waited.

I did not tell her that her mother was heartless, though part of me wanted to.

Children should not have to carry the wrongs of grown people.

The following day, I called my attorney, Samuel Price.

He had managed the house sale and knew where I was living.

“I need to go back,” I told him.

“Robert,” he said, using my real name, “are you sure?”

“No,” I admitted. “But my granddaughter thinks I’m dead.”