to face another predatory relative alone.
On a warm autumn evening, Grandma Eleanor and I sat on the wide front porch, sipping iced tea as the sun set over the garden.
Her gray hair was carefully pinned, her expression peaceful, and beside her chair sat her favorite old brown suitcase—now completely unpacked and stored safely in the attic where it belonged.
She looked over at me, a soft, rare smile touching her lips.
“You know, Ivan,” she said softly, taking a sip of her tea, “people always say family is
