My divorce from Michael had been finalized about a month prior. He had ended things abruptly and without warning—it was entirely his decision.
I didn’t resist. So I let him go, and since that day, we haven’t crossed paths.
Then one ordinary weekday, I was picking up cat food for a new rescue at my clinic. As I waited in the checkout line, something shiny outside caught my attention—a sleek, bright white sports car nestled between two aging sedans.
My breath caught—it brought me back to the last day I saw Grandpa alive.
He was already sick, and I’d gone over to spend time with him. But instead of relaxing, he led me to his home office, pulled out stacks of $100 bills—probably around $200,000—and said, “This is for your future, Kat. Start your own clinic, buy a home. I want you to be secure and happy.”
I’d smiled and refused. “Grandpa, I’m doing fine. Give it to someone who needs it more.”
To lighten the mood, I drew a little smiley face on one of the bills and handed it back to him. “Don’t worry about me.”
