…like a cold hand.

I took a deep breath, trying to find the words buried beneath layers of exhaustion and doubt. “No,” I admitted, my voice barely audible. “It’s not just about the car.”

He nodded slowly, as if he’d expected as much. “I see.”

The car moved smoothly through the streets, the world outside a blur of white and gray. Inside, the atmosphere was tense, charged with unspoken questions and the potential for change.

“I’ve made mistakes,” I continued, my voice gaining strength as the words spilled out. “I thought moving back home would help. That my parents would support me while Ryan was gone. But it’s… it’s not what I thought it would be.”

“I offered to help you before,” Grandpa Victor reminded me, his tone still cool but laced with an undertone of concern. “You chose them instead.”

“I know,” I said, guilt threading through my words. “I thought I could do it on my own. I thought I could be strong enough.”

He turned to look at me then, eyes piercing but not unkind. “Strength isn’t about doing everything alone, Olivia. It’s about knowing when to accept help.”

I nodded, tears threatening to spill over. “I know that now.”

A silence settled between us, heavy but not unbearable. It was the silence of understanding, a shared acknowledgment of past decisions and future possibilities.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice softer. “Ryan will be home soon, won’t he?”

“Yes,” I replied, hope flickering within me at the thought. “In a few weeks.