Whatever my granddaughter needed.

At least, that was what I believed.

Every other Saturday, I picked Emma up for ice cream.

She always ordered strawberry swirl, and we sat beneath the same oak tree while she told me about school.

That September afternoon, she had just finished telling me about getting an A on her spelling test when her smile suddenly disappeared.

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

She looked around before gripping my sleeve.

“Please stop sending Dad money.”

I froze.

“What?”

“The money you give him.

Don’t send it anymore.”

I lowered my voice.