“I don’t have the car,” I said quietly. “Lauren drives it. I only have this bike.”

Everything about my grandfather went still.

Then his expression hardened—cold, controlled anger.

He signaled to the driver. The door opened.

“Get in.”

That moment felt like the first way out I had seen in a long time.

I stepped into the warm car with Noah in my arms. The cold faded slowly from my body. Outside, the bicycle stayed behind in the snow—like the version of me I was leaving behind.

For a while, he said nothing.

Then finally: