“Did you say anything to your father?”
“I tried. The next day when Chelsea went to the hair salon, I told him what I had heard. Do you know what he told me? That I was making things up because I couldn’t accept that he moved on with his life. That I was a resentful teenager. That Chelsea had been very patient with me and that I was just trying to make her look bad.”
The helplessness I felt in that moment was crushing. My own son—the boy I had raised to be fair and honest—was completely blinded.
“You are not making anything up, Ethan. And I believe every word.”
He leaned his head on my shoulder and sighed.
“Why does she hate us so much, Grandma?”
“Because the hatred of people like Chelsea doesn’t come from the heart. It comes from ambition. For her, you and I are obstacles—things that stand between her and what she wants.”
“And what does she want?”
“Money. Power. An easy life without working for it.”
I fell silent, thinking. I started putting the pieces together. When Rob met Chelsea, she told him she came from a wealthy family in Dallas, that she had attended private schools, that she worked as a dealer at the casino because she liked the excitement, not out of necessity. But we never met her family. No relative ever came to the wedding. When I asked Rob about it, he said Chelsea was estranged from her parents due to personal problems.
How convenient.
“Ethan, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Anything, Grandma.”
“Take out your phone. Show me the photos of the bruises you said you had from before.”
He took his cell phone out of his pocket, unlocked the screen, and opened his gallery. He showed me a hidden folder in his files. There were at least twenty photos—bruises on his arms, on his back, on his legs. All recent, all dated.
“Why did you never show me this?”
“Because I was afraid that if I did something, my dad would blame you. Chelsea always says that you’re turning me against them.”
“Send me all those photos. Now.”
Ethan obeyed. My phone started vibrating as the images arrived. Every photo was proof. Every mark was a silent cry for help that no one had heard until now.
“Now I need you to sleep a little,” I told him. “Your eyebrow is swollen and you need to rest. Use my room. I’ll stay here on the couch.”
