I had lived through layoffs, rising debts, hospital waiting rooms, and long nights wondering how to keep everything together. Fear, to me, had become familiar—something worn down by time, something manageable.Or so I thought.That illusion shattered the moment my granddaughter spoke.It was a cold October morning in Vancouver, the kind that tricks you into believing everything is calm and ordinary. The streets were lined with gold and red leaves, the air sharp with cedar and rain. I had just dropped my wife, Margaret, at the airport.She was leaving for what she called a “wellness retreat” in Kelowna. Five days of yoga, spas, and relaxation. At least, that was the story.

She barely looked at me when she got out of the car.Don’t forget to water my orchids,” she said, as if assigning a task, not saying goodbye.I leaned in for a kiss. She turned her cheek.I told myself it meant nothing.I watched her walk into the terminal, suitcase rolling behind her, posture perfect, never once turning back.Then I heard a small voice.“Grandpa…”I glanced in the rearview mirror. Sophie sat in the back seat, unusually quiet.Her face was pale—too pale. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap.What is it, sweetheart?” I asked.Her voice trembled.“Can we… not go home right now?”The question made no sense. Sophie loved staying with us. My daughter, Catherine, had left her with us while handling a crisis at the hospital. Everything had seemed normal.Until now.