My grandfather raised me alone after my parents died. Two weeks after his funeral, I learned he’d been hiding the truth from me my entire life.

My grandfather raised me alone after my parents died. Two weeks after his funeral, I learned he’d been hiding the truth from me my entire life.

I’m eighteen now.
But when I was six, my life ended once already.

My parents left the house on a rain-soaked November night and never came back. A drunk driver crossed the center line and erased them in seconds. I remember adults whispering in corners, lowering their voices when I walked by—words like placement, system, temporary homes floating above my head like threats.

Then my grandfather stood up.