“He asked us not to encourage another one of your overreactions. And we agreed that sending you back to work it out was better for everyone. Better for the family.”

Sadie’s fingers found mine and closed around them. I felt her do it — my nine-year-old, reading the porch, reaching for my hand to steady one of us, I was never sure afterward which.

“You planned this,” I said. “Before I even got here. You decided that if you made us homeless for a night, I’d be scared enough to go back to him.”

Nobody answered. And the silence answered for them.

I asked one more time, because some stubborn, disbelieving part of me still could not accept that a grandfather would look at three frightened children on his porch and choose the door.

“Please. Let the kids stay tonight, at least. You don’t have to let me in. Just them.”