I sat on the worn-out sofa Granny left me. The movers had just dropped it off, and I could still see the juice stain I’d made years ago. Granny hadn’t cared about stains—only about refilling my drink. “I’ll miss you, Granny,” I whispered. My dad, Ronny, stood nearby. “Why cry over junk?” “This isn’t junk. It’s a memory.” He scoffed. “She tried taking you from me, remember? Sent you to live with strangers.”

“They’re good people,” I said. “And they let me come for the funeral.” As I sat down, something jabbed me. I lifted the cushion and found a taped box marked For Kevin—Granny’s handwriting. Inside was a letter and legal papers. Granny wrote that Dad could inherit everything, but only if he agreed to stay out of my life. “Give him the papers,” she said. “See what he does.” I showed him. He read them, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out. I followed.He walked straight into a law office. My heart sank.Later, I called Denise and Miguel. They picked me up, and I never looked back. It’s been three years now, and my adoptive parents have been nothing but kind. Granny may be gone, but she made sure I’d be safe, loved, and free to grow.