When I finally get myself back under control I take a step back, look up to see that my grandfather has been crying too. Not as much as me, but his eyes are definitely moist.

He pats me on the back awkwardly, then goes over to the sink to get a wet paper towel and brings it to me. I sit down at the table again, and he walks back to the sink to splash a little water on his own face and dry his eyes.

He sits down again and just looks at me.

"I have so many questions," I tell him.

He nods. "Go ahead then, and ask me."

"Why didn't you tell my father all this after she was gone?"

He sighs. "Laura asked us not to. She didn't want him to be disappointed in her for not wanting to fight anymore. We chose to honor her wishes." He rests his hands on the table again and, looking down at them, I am reminded that despite his vitality in the office, my grandfather is an old man. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at him again, even in the most contentious meetings at work, without seeing just a hint of the vulnerability he showed me today.

"Besides," he said, "your father never would have believed us. He needed someone to blame, someone to hate."

"But you lost me," I say softly.

"Not completely," he says, and for the first time since we sat down together, he actually smiles. "We always kept track of you, your accomplishments."

"How?"

"Hadley," he says, "who do you think paid for your college, your living expenses, the time you studied abroad, law school?"

"I . . . there was a trust fund that my mother would have received when she was 30, but since she didn't live that long it came to me."

He leans back in his chair, studies me.

"There was no trust fund."

"What do you mean? I received the checks form the lawyer who served as trustee. I have paperwork."

"When Laura told us we needed to refuse to give Brandon the money for the treatment, we asked her if there was anything we could do to help. She wanted us to make sure you got an education, that you didn't have to borrow money and work multiple part-time jobs just to get through school. She asked us to pay the costs for whatever career you wanted to pursue."

He gives a short humorless laugh. "Not just if you followed in my footsteps and went to law school. Whatever you wanted. It was the least we could do. It's what we wanted to do."

"But . . . why the subterfuge?"

"Hadley, think about it. Your father would never have accepted money from us for your education when he thought we were unwilling to pay money to save Laura's life. He'd have called it guilt money and thrown it back in our faces. But we knew he wouldn't deny you the benefit of a trust fund he thought belonged to your mother."

"So much of what I believed all my life wasn't true." I look into his eyes, hoping I'll now be able to separate the truth from the lies. "Would you ever have told me?"

"No." His answer is fast and firm. "Not if you hadn't threatened to get on a plane tomorrow and go back to Philadelphia. I didn't just want you here for your grandmother, Hadley. I'll admit that was a big part of the reason, especially for the timing. But it was so much more than that."

His eyes take on a distant look now, like he's gazing into the past.

"From the moment you were born," he says softly, "everything I built in the law firm has been for you. Your mother didn't want it, and that was fine. Your father . . ." He stops then, seems to shut down.

"What about my father?" I ask, but he just shakes his head.

I guess some topics are still off limits.

But I'm wondering now if my grandfather had something to do with my father dropping out of law school in his last semester. He's never really explained why he did that, at least not to my satisfaction. He's always said he just decided the law wasn't for him.

"Andy? Where are you?" The frail voice comes through the baby monitor, a slight hint of panic that will only get worse if he doesn't get to her quickly.

"You go on," I tell him. "I'll be fine."

He heads toward the hallway and the stairs. "Let me know if you need me," I call after him.

It's getting late. If he goes into their bedroom right now, she'll probably just go back to sleep, curling her body against him, her point of reference in a world that more and more doesn't make sense to her.

I wonder how a mother even survives the pain of losing her only child.

Of course, much of the time, she lives in a world that existed before Laura died. My grandfather and I make that possible.

But now, with everything I heard tonight, I'm even less certain what I should do. An hour ago I had all but decided to resign from my grandfather's firm and go back to Philadelphia. Resume the life that was predictable and, in its own way, comforting. The alternative - staying here in Miami and having to do legal work for Max and his art gallery - seems almost unthinkable.

But leaving my grandparents now that I know the truth seems equally unthinkable.

Sure I could fly back, visit them when I have a little time off, but that wouldn't be for awhile since I took this leave of absence from work.

My grandmother has dementia, which is a terminal disease. My grandfather is 70 years old. How much time is there left, really, for me to be with them, get to know them?

From the moment you were born, everything I built in the law firm has been for you. That's what he said. And incredibly, I believe he meant it.

I imagine my grandparents, all those years, trying to keep up with me from afar. And I remember how every time I reached out to the lawyer who served as "trustee" of what I now know was a nonexistent trust, asking if any of the proceeds could be used for this or that - the summer in college when I wanted to study abroad in Belgium, money I needed for living expenses after my first year of law school so I could take an unpaid internship with a judge rather than find a job that actually paid a wage, the additional fees so I could be on the law school moot court team and travel to the national competition - the answer was always yes. The money would magically appear in my account, or arrive by check from the lawyer.

I never asked for anything unreasonable, but I thought it was my money to spend. Money that had been a gift to me from my mother.

Well, I suppose that's actually what it was.

My grandparents. I hope it gave them joy, imagining me taking classes in Belgium, getting accepted to one of the top law schools in the U.S., having the opportunity to do the unpaid internship with the judge, when so many of my classmates couldn't even consider a summer not earning money.

Because those funds were available to me, I had the chance to take advantage of all those opportunities, gaining experience that help me land the coveted job in the Philadelphia public defender's office which, despite paying so much less than what a lawyer could earn at one of the big national law firms, was highly sought after for its fast-track trial experience. I was trying jury cases while my friends at the big firms were buried in the law library doing research for several years before ever setting foot in a courtroom.

And I owed it all to my grandparents . . . and, of course, my mother. It's hard to wrap my head around the fact that my grandparents did love me, that they did all these things for me, while for most of my life my father and I thought they were horrible people.

My father.

What am I going to do about my father? Do I tell him what I just learned, or would it only bring him more pain, after all these years?

I have a lot to think about, including making a decision soon about whether I'm going to stay here in Miami, where I have to deal with Max being here as well, or resume my old life in Philadelphia.

I refill my glass of water and take it upstairs with me to go to bed. It's been a long day, and I'm not in any shape emotionally right now to make big decisions about my life.

As I walk into my bedroom, my phone lights up with a text.

Max.

It's almost as if I conjured him up just by thinking about him.

The message says: It's not what you think.

The feelings of hurt and betrayal that were displaced by my conversation with my grandfather come rushing back. Really? It's not what I think? Nice try, Max.

I delete the message.

With anger bubbling up on me, I switch to his contact page and scroll down, my finger hovering over the option to Block this Caller.

While I'm still figuring out what to do, another text comes in and makes up my mind for me.

Call me.

When hell freezes over, Max, I think, and firmly press the option to block him.

We aren't a couple anymore. We both agreed to that. He can screw anybody he wants to, but I don't want to discuss it.

If Max Bennett needs to talk to me about the art gallery contracts or any other legal matter, he can call me at the office. During business hours.

I put my phone on the nightstand and get ready for bed, determined to push all thought of him out of my mind and get some sleep.

There's this little voice in the back of my head warning me that Max is going to have plenty to say about me blocking him.

But at the moment, I really don't care.