“I’m sure you do,” the judge interrupted.
A few people in the gallery exchanged glances.
For years, my parents had never bothered to learn much about my life.
When I enlisted after law school, they told relatives I had “joined because she couldn’t make it in private practice.”
When I made captain, they forgot.
When I made major, they didn’t even call.
The truth was simple.
They never asked.
And I never volunteered information.
It was easier that way.
My younger brother, Ethan, was the golden child. Every achievement of his became family news.
My sister, Rachel, could do no wrong.
Meanwhile, I became the daughter who was somehow always disappointing despite paying her own way through college, earning a law degree, and building a career most people would be proud of.
Then Grandma entered the picture.
Grandma Evelyn saw everything.
Unlike everyone else, she paid attention.
