That night, as my grandson’s voice shook through the phone—“Grandma, I’m at the police station.

I reached out in the dark, fumbling on the nightstand until I found the cell phone. The screen illuminated my face with that cold glare that abruptly drags you back to reality. It was Ethan, my grandson, the only one who still called me Grandma without anyone forcing him to.

“Ethan, my son, what happened?”

My voice was hoarse with sleep, but my heart was already pounding as if it knew something was terribly wrong. What I heard on the other end chilled my blood.

“Grandma.” His voice was shaking, broken by sobs. “I’m at the police station. Chelsea… she hit me with a candlestick. My eyebrow is bleeding. But she’s saying that I attacked her, that I pushed her down the stairs. My dad… my dad believes her. Grandma, he doesn’t believe me.”

I felt the air leave my lungs. I sat up in bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. Ethan’s words ricocheted in my head like stray bullets.

Chelsea. My son’s wife. The woman who, in five years, had achieved what I thought was impossible: turning Rob into a stranger.

“Calm down, my boy. Which police station are you at?”

“The one in Greenwich Village. Grandma, I’m scared. There’s an officer who says if a responsible adult doesn’t come, they’re going to transfer me to—”

“Don’t say another word,” I interrupted him, already standing, searching for my clothes with trembling hands. “I’m on my way. Don’t talk to anyone until I get there. Did you understand me?”