Three Instances of a Lie

Just as I was about to grab a few changes of clothes, a childish voice piped up from the doorway.

"What are you doing?"

I turned. Erik's small frame was blocking the entrance.

He had Federico's features, but that condescending posture was pure Savannah.

"Getting my things."

I went back to packing, not looking at him.

Usually, the sight of him would make me rush over for a hug and a kiss, no matter how much he squirmed away.

But this time, my heart felt strangely still.

"These aren't your things."

Seeing I was ignoring him, he stomped in, treading on the clothes I'd laid out on the floor. "Aunt Savannah said everything in this house belongs to Dad. You can't take anything."

I paused. "These are mine."

"The money you used was Dad's," he said, clasping his hands behind his back like a little old man. "And Dad's money belongs to the Graysons. Outsiders can't take Grayson things."

Outsider?

I lifted my head and stared at him.

A four-year-old boy, standing there, looking at me like I was a common thief.

The coldness in his eyes was even more pronounced than Federico's.

"I'm just taking one thing." I clutched the watch box tightly and stood. "You can have the rest."

"No." He darted over, blocking the doorway with his arms spread wide. "You can't steal from the Graysons."

"Erik, move."

"No!" he shrieked. "You're a thief! A dirty thief! Aunt Savannah said if you leave, you can never come back, and if you take things, it's stealing!"

A vein throbbed in my temple. "I'll say it one last time. Move."

"No! Put it down!"

He lunged at me, grabbing for the velvet box in my hand.

I pulled back on instinct. The box tore open.

The Cartier watch tumbled out, hit the concrete floor with a sickening crack, and the crystal face shattered.

I froze, my mother's words echoing in my mind from the day she'd fastened it to my wrist.

Berry, she had said, this has been in our family for three generations. One day, you'll give it to your daughter. And if you don't have a daughter, give it to your son's wife…

No daughter. No daughter-in-law. Just this watch.

Passed down for generations, only to be shattered in mine. By my own son.

Erik stood to the side, muttering, "Well, you should've just let go…"

My eyes, red-rimmed, fixed on him. "I told you. This was from my grandma."

I stared at him, my own eyes burning. Does he even know who pays for his grandmother to lie in that private nursing home?

Erik flinched, taking a half-step back.

"I don't have a grandma. I just know some money-burning old woman…"

The blood rushed to my head.

"Aunt Savannah said so. She said she's in such a nice room, costing Dad all that money, and she's not even getting better. She's just burning money—"

"Say that again."

My voice was warped, unrecognizable even to me.

My expression must have terrified him. He bit his lip, then puffed out his chest. "She's a money-burning old woman, so what—Ah!"

I shoved him.

He stumbled backward and fell, landing hard on his backside.

He sat stunned for a second before his face crumpled and he let out a piercing wail.

"Dad! Dad!"

My hand was numb. I stared at my son thrashing on the floor, the words "money-burning old woman" echoing in my head.

That "money-burning old woman" was my mother. His grandmother.

The woman who'd dragged her post-surgery body to his one-month celebration, knitting him a tiny sweater, stitch by painstaking stitch.

The woman who, on his birthday every year, would call from the nursing home and have a nurse read out, "Happy birthday to my dearest Erik."

And he called her a "money-burning old woman."

The sharp edge of the broken watch face bit into my palm, the pain a welcome anchor.

Federico burst in and saw his son sobbing on the floor. He instantly scooped him up.

"Erik, what's wrong?"

Erik buried his face in his father's shoulder, his cries escalating. "Dad, she pushed me! Make her leave! I want Aunt Savannah…"

Federico held him, his gaze lifting to meet mine.

It was filled with cold disapproval. "Berry, have you lost your mind? Hitting a child!"

"I didn't hit him," I said, my voice quiet. "I pushed him."

"Is there a difference?"

I looked down at the shattered watch in my hand.

"Yes," I said. "Hitting him would have been a mother's discipline. Pushing him... was what he deserved."