At the family reunion, my sister got up, pointed at my 13-year-old, and said, “She is mentally behind. Don’t give her money.” The room felt silent. My grandmother stared in surprise.
“You really don’t know who she is?” My sister went pale. Wait, really? We arrived late on purpose, not because traffic was bad. Because if you show up late, you miss the first round of questions. You miss the first round of forced hugs. You miss the part where everyone pretends nothing happened last time.
It is a small, quiet survival skill. My daughter Vivien did not know that. Viven was in the passenger seat smoothing her shirt like it was a job interview. She checked her hair in the visor mirror. Then she checked it again. “Do I look okay?” she asked. “You look like you,” I said. “That is not what I meant.” “I know.
” She stared at the ocean through the window like it might give her better answers than I would. Then she asked, “Are grandpa and grandma excited to see me?” I kept my eyes on the road. They will act excited. Vivien frowned. That is also not an answer. It is an answer. It is just not the one you want. And Aunt Monica. There it was.
The name that always lands in my chest like a dropped cup. Monica likes attention, I said. Viven smiled. Anyway, everyone likes attention. Not like Monica. Viven didn’t argue after that. She just looked smaller for a moment, like her excitement had bumped into something sharp. Then she sat up again because she is 13 and hope is still her default setting.
The rental was one of those modest coastal places that tries very hard to look charming. Weathered wood, sand tracked everywhere. A kitchen that smells like someone has been frying something since 2007. The moment we opened the door, sound hit us. Laughter, plates clinking, someone shouting a name across the room like we were at a sports event.
My dad saw us first. He smiled like he had been smiling at the same family photo for years and just remembered where it was taken. Lydia,” he said, not angry, not warm, just found. He hugged me quickly. Two pats on my back, a short inhale, a short exhale. Done. My mom appeared behind him and touched my arm like we were close enough for it to mean something.
Then she leaned past me to Viven. “Oh my goodness,” she said brightly. Look at you. Viven lit up because of course she did. My mother can be wonderful in short bursts. My mother can play grandma like it is a role she has rehearsed. My daughter has only ever seen the performance. Viven hugged her. My mom held on a second too long like she was proving something to the room.
Then she let go and smiled at me like we were doing so well. I swallowed the urge to pull Vivien behind me. Then my sister Monica arrived. Not loudly, not late. Perfect timing, like she had been waiting outside until she knew eyes would be on her. She did not walk into the room. She entered it.
Lydia, she said with a smile that looked expensive. Monica, I said. Vivien looked at her like you look at someone you have heard about forever but have never really met. hopeful, curious, trying to be liked before she even knows the rules. Monica bent down and kissed Viven’s cheek with a loud smack. “And this must be Viven,” she said like she was announcing a celebrity. Vivien nodded, smiling.
Monica’s eyes flicked over her. “Quick, assessing.” Then Monica straightened and looked at me with the expression I remembered from childhood. “I am being nice. You owe me for it. Viven didn’t see any of that. Viven only saw attention. For a moment, I thought, maybe I could do this. Maybe I could keep it light.
Maybe I could let Viven have her normal family weekend and not pay for it later. Then the room shifted. Not a big shift, a ripple. People turned their heads toward the doorway. Not toward me, not toward Monica. Toward the back. My grandmother, June, had arrived. She came in slowly, supported by a woman I did not recognize, a helper, a friend, someone steady at her elbow.
My grandmother looked smaller than I remembered, but her eyes were the same, sharp, quiet, the kind of eyes that never miss where the money went. Viven’s face changed instantly. Not polite smile changed. Relief changed. Grandma June, she breathed. And before I could say anything, she was already moving through the room. She did not hesitate.
That bond is not complicated. Everyone else floated in and out of Vivian’s life like a seasonal decoration. My grandmother stayed. My grandmother called. My grandmother asked questions and waited for answers. My grandmother showed up when she said she would. Viven adored her for it. My grandmother hugged Viven carefully, hands gentle on Viven’s shoulders.
“There you are,” she said, like she had been holding a place for her. Then she looked at me, her gaze softened in that way that always made me feel like she understood the parts I did not say out loud. “Lydia,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here. That sentence had weight. My grandmother does not waste words. I nodded. Me, too. That was a lie, but it was a polite one.
And we were still in the phase where politeness was pretending to be a shield. Dinner happened in pieces. Plates passed. Stories told, laughing a little too loudly, leaving out the ugly parts like they were stains you could scrub out of the family history. Vivien stayed close to my grandmother. Monica stayed close to my mom.
My dad hovered between everyone, doing what he always does, smoothing, nodding, never choosing. Then, when plates were empty and people leaned back in chairs like they had decided the hard part of the day was over, my grandmother stood, not fast, not dramatic, deliberate. The room quieted. instinct. Families still do that, even broken ones.
My grandmother rested both hands on the back of her chair. “I won’t keep you long,” she said. I almost laughed because my grandmother never kept anyone long. “She does not ramble. She does point A to point B and then she is done.” “Her eyes landed on Viven.” for my amazing great granddaughter,” she said, voice warm. “I have a gift.” Viven froze. “The good kind of frozen.
The kind where your brain scrambles because something wonderful is happening to you and you cannot decide how to hold your face.” My grandmother continued. “I’ve been working with my lawyer,” she said. “I’m setting up a trust.” The word trust changed the air. Not for Viven. Vivien did not know what it meant.
Not really, but the adults did. My mom’s posture shifted. Monica’s smile faltered. My grandmother kept going. It will be hers, she said. Protected. No one can touch it. When she turns 18, she’ll have full control. Viven’s eyes were wide. Grandma June. My grandmother lifted a hand gently. Let me finish. There may be small distributions before then, she added for things that support her future, but the main thing is this.
It’s hers. A soft wave of applause moved through the room. A few relatives smiled. Someone said, “That’s wonderful.” And it was, in theory, a lovely moment. Then I looked at Monica. She was not smiling. She was staring at my grandmother like my grandmother had just handed the family home to a stranger.
Monica’s face went pale in that controlled way people do when they are trying to keep their panic inside their skin. My mom’s mouth tightened. My dad’s eyes flicked between them, confused. Viven was still glowing, still stunned, still trying to find words. My grandmother sat down carefully like she had placed something valuable on the table and now she was waiting to see who would try to grab it.
There was a beat, a small silence, the kind where you can almost hear people thinking. Then Monica stood, not casual, not hesitant, decisive, like she had made up her mind in one sharp inhale. She pointed at Viven and she said loud enough for the room to hear. She is mentally behind. Don’t give her money.
The silence that followed was not polite. It was the kind of silence that happens when everyone in a room is having the same thought at the same time. Did she really just say that? Vivien blinked once, twice, confused first, then hurt, like her brain could not compute that an adult had just pointed at her and announced something terrible about her like it was a fact.
My grandmother stared at Monica in surprise. Then my grandmother’s gaze shifted to me back to Monica, and she said very quietly, “You really don’t know who she is? Monica’s mouth opened slightly, her eyes darted. She swallowed. “Wait, really?” she said, and for the first time, she sounded less like a performer and more like someone who had just stepped on stage and realized she did not know her lines. “My grandmother did not argue.
She did not defend. She did not raise her voice. She corrected the record.” Vivien,” she said, turning toward my daughter. “Sweetheart, stand up for a second.” Vivien hesitated. Her hands were shaking. Then she stood anyway because Vivien is brave in the way quiet kids are brave. The kind of brave that happens when you do the thing, even though your throat hurts.
My grandmother looked around the room. “Some of you already know this,” she said. because you have been in her life. That line landed, not loud, clean, my grandmother continued. Vivien has been accepted into the Larkin Academic Fellowship Program, a highly selective, gifted program. A ripple went through the room, a soft intake of breath, a couple of quiet exclamations.
Vivian’s cheeks flushed and her eyes flicked to me like she was not sure if she was allowed to be proud in the middle of being attacked. My grandmother kept her tone calm. Straight A’s, she said. Recommendations, interviews. Then she added like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. I paid the deposit. The deposit.
That was the part that made the room understand. Not just that Viven was accepted, but that it was real, recent, verified, and that the only way Monica did not know was if Monica had not been there. Monica’s arm dropped slowly like her body had finally remembered how. My grandmother tilted her head slightly.
“So, when you say you know who she is,” she said. “I have to wonder what child you are talking about.” Vivien’s breath hitched. My mom stared at the table like the wood grain might tell her what to say next. My dad’s face did that uncomfortable shifting thing it does when he wants everyone to stop and also wants no one to blame him.
And Monica just stood there for once. She did not know where to put her face. If you asked me 10 years ago whether Monica would ever point at a child in front of witnesses and try to shrink her with one sentence, I would have said no. Not because Monica is kind, because Monica is strategic. Monica does cruelty with witnesses when she thinks she will win.
So when I tell you she did it anyway, you need to understand what kind of desperation makes someone gamble like that. To explain that, I have to go back. Not to Vivien, to me. Growing up, Monica was the center of everything. Not in a metaphor way, in a practical daily way. Whatever she wanted, the house shifted to make it happen.
My parents didn’t make speeches about favoritism. They didn’t have to. They practiced it quietly, in tone, in attention, in the way my mom’s face lit up when Monica walked into a room. with the way my dad learned how to praise Monica without thinking. Monica was gifted. I was difficult. Monica was so talented. I was trying.
Monica sang and my mom would glow. I sang and my mom would tilt her head like she was listening for a reason to be impressed. Then came the choir audition. A selective children’s choir. The kind where you audition and they do not just let everyone in. It mattered. At least it mattered to Monica. My parents talked about it like it was already decided. Monica would get in.
Of course she would. I was discouraged so gently it almost sounded like concern. Don’t get your hopes up, Lydia. My mom said it’s very competitive. Monica practiced loudly in the living room. My dad praised her. My mom said that’s my girl. Like Monica’s voice was proof our family story was correct. I practiced quietly in my room, door half closed. Then we auditioned and I got in.
Monica didn’t. The shock on Monica’s face was the first time I understood she believed the family story as much as my parents did. For a second, I thought maybe that would crack something open. Maybe my parents would adjust. Maybe they would say, “Well, look at that. Lydia can sing.
” Instead, they minimized it. They comforted Monica as if she had been wronged. They treated my acceptance like an inconvenience, like I had taken something that belonged to her. It was not said outright. It did not have to be. It lived in the way my mom hugged Monica longer than she congratulated me. It lived in the way my dad said, “Sometimes judges have preferences.
” Like my success was a fluke. Monica never forgave me for that choir. And my parents spent years trying to make it up to her. That is how resentments become family heirlooms. Everyone keeps passing them down like they are precious. Fast forward. I left home as soon as I could. I did not slam the door dramatically.
I just stopped trying, stopped chasing approval I was never going to get. I also made the classic mistake of someone who has been emotionally starved. I mistook attention for love. I got into a relationship too quickly, believed promises too easily, and when it fell apart, I was left holding a baby and learning how to be steady on my own.
Viven was the best thing that ever happened to me. She was also at first hard, not because she was bad, because she was wired differently. When Vivien was little, she struggled with focus and emotional regulation. Bright one moment, overwhelmed the next. Forgetting a simple instruction, then reciting an entire story she heard once.
When Vivian was seven, we did not have a diagnosis yet. We just had storms and me trying to build a safe home in the middle of them. Then came the visit. Vivien was seven. I remember because she had just lost her first front tooth and she could not stop touching the gap like she was proud of it. We were with my parents and Monica.
Viven was being Viven, talkative, restless, excited, sometimes too loud. My mom watched her like she was studying a problem. Monica made a comment about Viven being a lot. Then they did the thing I recognized in my bones in front of my child. They speculated she was behind. They suggested special schooling.
They said it with that soft, superior tone people use when they think they are being helpful. Vivian heard every word. I watched her face change. The way a child’s face changes when something inside them cracks just a little. That was the last straw. Not because I was dramatic, because I was tired. I had lived that pattern my whole life.
I was not going to watch it take root in my daughter. So, I pulled back hard. No big announcement, no screaming phone call, just distance, boundaries, minimal contact. And then Vivien was diagnosed with ADHD. Once we had the right support and structure, everything shifted. Not overnight, not magically, steadily. Viven learned how her brain worked.
We built routines, found tools. The storms did not vanish, but they became navigable. Viven thrived, strong student, motivated, capable, bright in a way that was unmistakable once you were not committed to misunderstanding her. Through all of it, my grandmother stayed involved. She called Viven. She listened. She showed up.
She treated Viven like a whole person. My parents and Monica did not. Then Vivien applied to the Larkin Academic Fellowship Program, a highly selective, gifted program. straight A’s, recommendations, interviews, the whole process that makes teenagers sweat and parents pretend they are fine while secretly spiraling. Vivian got accepted.
My grandmother knew. Other relatives knew. My parents and Monica didn’t. They weren’t there. Then months before the reunion, they reappeared like someone had flipped a switch. texts, calls, warmth, not subtle. I figured it out later. That was when they learned my grandmother had money and they showed up like they had just remembered family mattered.
That is the thing about money. It does not just reveal character, it reveals timing. By the time we reached the reunion, I knew something was coming. I just didn’t know how ugly Monica would be willing to make it in public. Now I did. After my grandmother said gifted program, the room stayed awkwardly quiet.
Not the stunned silence from Monica’s accusation. A different silence. The kind where people are recalculating what they just witnessed and trying to decide where to look. Viven wiped her eyes fast like tears were something she could erase with enough effort. She tried to look brave. She was shaking.
Monica recovered first. Of course she did. Monica always tries to reclaim control. I’m only trying to protect you, she said to my grandmother, voice suddenly soft and reasonable. You don’t know what she’s like at home. Lydia has coached her. You don’t see it. My parents backed her up. Not with facts, with tone. We didn’t want to upset anyone,” my mom said like she was the victim.
“We just thought you should know.” My dad nodded behind her, uncomfortable and committed to not committing. My grandmother did not argue about ADHD. She didn’t get pulled into a medical conversation she didn’t need. She asked one question. “When was the last time you actually saw Vivien?” she said. Monica blinked regularly.
My grandmother tilted her head. Name the last time. Monica’s mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes flicked toward my mom like she was looking for a lifeline. My mom stepped in. We’ve been around, she said. We know. My grandmother’s voice stayed calm. Then tell me something small, she said. something recent, something you would only know if you were in her life.
Monica’s face tightened. And that is when I stepped in, not loudly, not dramatically. I moved between Monica and my daughter, put a steady hand on Vivian’s shoulder, and said, “Don’t speak about my child like that again.” My voice didn’t shake. I didn’t raise it. I didn’t need to. Vivien leaned into my hand just slightly like she was anchoring herself.
My grandmother looked at me once. Something passed between us. Recognition. Relief. Maybe both. Then she turned back to Monica and my parents. This is about the trust, my grandmother said plainly. And I won’t have it. Monica tried to protest. That’s not fair. My grandmother cut her off without raising her voice.
We’re done here. The room stayed quiet, not because people had no opinions, but because no one wanted to be the next person my grandmother looked at with that level of disappointment. You need to leave, my grandmother said. Monica stared, stunned. My mom’s face hardened. Mom. My grandmother did not flinch. Not another word about her.
Monica gathered herself with stiff, furious movements. My parents moved with her, still clinging to the illusion that this was concern and not greed. They left. No apology, no attempt to comfort Viven. No glance that suggested a relationship beyond entitlement. When the door shut, Vivien’s control broke. She cried in that raw, stunned way that is not about one moment.
It is about suddenly understanding adults can be cruel and unfair and you cannot logic your way out of it. I didn’t do anything. She choked out. I pulled her close. I know. Why would she say that? I swallowed. Because there are answers you don’t want to give your child at 13. Instead, I gave her the truth she could carry.
Because she doesn’t know you, I said softly. and she wants to pretend she does. Viven wiped her face hard, angry through the tears, but Grandma June knows me. Yes, I said, “And that’s why she couldn’t win.” The reunion continued technically. People cleared plates. Someone put on coffee. A couple of relatives tried to act like they didn’t just watch a child get publicly targeted, but the energy had changed.
quieter, realer. Later in the car, Vivien stared out the window and said, “So, they don’t actually know me at all, do they?” I kept my eyes on the road. “No,” I said. “They don’t.” Viven was quiet for a long time. Then she whispered almost to herself. “That’s what hurts.” I reached over and took her hand, and I thought we had made it through the worst part.
I was wrong. The next morning, I woke up to an email that made my whole body go cold before my brain finished reading it. It was from the gifted program. Polite, professional, distant. It said Vivian’s place was on hold pending review due to a video that had surfaced and raised concerns about integrity. They were pausing next steps while they investigated. It didn’t say withdrawn.
It didn’t say expelled. paused. My first thought was not random internet drama. My first thought was Monica, because of course it was. Reunion, humiliation, trust out of reach. Then this. I sat up in bed, heart pounding, and opened my phone with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy.
I found it faster than I wanted to. A link in a group chat, a screenshot from someone I barely spoke to. Have you seen this? That awful casual tone people use when they share something destructive like it is gossip. I clicked vertical video. Shaky warm lamp light. Viven’s face framed too close like someone on the other end of a couch decided privacy was optional.
A girl off camera laughed. Say it again. Viven laughed too. Same mouth, same dimples, wrong sound. Video. Viven rolled her eyes like she’d practiced it. The funniest thing, she said, dragging the words out. Everyone is so stupid. I wanted to turn it off. I didn’t video. Viven tilted her head. That gifted program, it’s not even special.
I don’t even want it. The girl snorted. I thought it was like hard to get in. Video. Vivien smirked. I hate studying. I really hate studying. She said it the way kids say something nasty and wait to see if it gets a reaction. Then she leaned in. Conspiratorial. My mom got me the answers. The words landed clean. Too clean.
The girl gasped. All of them? Yeah. Video. Vivien said, nodding like she was proud and bored at the same time. In advance. I don’t even know how she got them. She just had them. She lifted her hands in a shrug. Big theatrical like the whole world was easy. So, you just memorized them? The girl asked. Obviously, video said for days.
It was still hard. Okay. People act like cheating is effortless. She laughed at her own joke. The laugh was sharp again. Then she shifted gears like she’d been waiting for the punchline. My mom said it’s for inheritance. Video Viven said like tons of money. The girl went, “No way.” “Oh yeah.” Video Viviian smiled.
My great grandma loves all the hard work stuff, so my mom was like, “Get into the program and she’ll be impressed.” She flicked her hair back. A little performance flourish and it worked. Video Vivien added, “She believed it. She totally believed it.” There, that was the point of the video, not the program, not the studying.
convincing an old woman she was being generous to a sweet, grateful kid. Video. Viven leaned back and said lightly like it wasn’t a confession at all. Now she’s setting up a trust. When I’m 18, I get the money and then I’m done. Done with what? The girl asked. Done with all of it? Video. Vivien said waving a hand.
School trying whatever. She laughed again. The camera jerked, caught a blur of Viven’s shoulder and the edge of a pillow. Then the video cut off mid laugh like someone hit stop at the exact moment it would hurt most. I stared at the black screen. Not because I needed to process what was said, because I needed to process what it was designed to do. It wasn’t Viven.
It was a fake wearing her face. It wasn’t trying to embarrass her. It was trying to rewrite the reunion. It was trying to hand Monica a second chance to say, “See, I told you.” And make everyone believe her this time. My immediate instinct was to keep Vivian from seeing it. Which was impossible. The internet does not care about my instincts.
But I could control one thing. How fast I moved. Screenshots, timestamps, links, the message threads where it was spreading. My hands were steady. My chest was not. Then I heard movement in the hallway. Viven came out already tense like she had woken up into something wrong. “Kids know. They do not always know what, but they know when the air changes.
” She looked at my face and froze. “What happened?” she asked. Her voice was already shaking. I tried to keep my expression neutral. I really did, but my body gave me away. Vivien’s eyes flicked to my phone. Then her phone buzzed. A notification. And I watched the exact moment her world shifted. She didn’t even have to watch the whole thing. She saw enough.
Her face, her voice, words she would never say. She made a sound, half sobb, half gasp. I didn’t say that, she said immediately. I didn’t say any of that. I know, I said. My voice was firm. I know you didn’t. Viven’s breath hitched. They’re going to believe it. They’re going to investigate it, I said.
That’s not the same thing, she shook her head. The program, she whispered. Did they see it? I didn’t want to say it. I wanted to protect her from one more wound, but Vivien was 13, not five. So, I said it softly. They put your place on hold. Vivien’s face crumpled, so I’m losing it. No, I said immediately. Not today. Viven stared at me like she needed me to be certain enough for both of us.
I took her phone and closed it. Not as punishment, as protection. You’re not watching that again, I said. You’re not reading comments. You’re not letting someone else’s lies live in your head. Viven wiped her face hard, angry now. Who would do this? I did not answer immediately because I could not say Monica’s name without turning it into a fire. Instead, I said what mattered.
This was done to you. I told her. It isn’t you. Viven nodded, but her eyes were terrified. What if Grandma June believes it? She whispered. That question landed like a stone. We had not heard from my grandmother yet, and my grandmother is older. Sharp, yes, but from a generation that grew up believing video was proof.
Viven’s voice was small. I don’t want her to think that’s why I’m with her. I pulled her close. She knows you, I said. She knows your heart. Vivien shook with silent crying. I let her cry for a minute. Then I stood up because mother bear energy does not look like screaming. It looks like action. I called a lawyer. Short notice meeting.
I brought everything. The program email, the link, the screenshots, the message threads. I didn’t walk in asking if there was anything we could do. I walked in saying, “Someone is using a fake video of my child to destroy her reputation and her education.” The lawyer watched the clip. Didn’t flinch. “We can take action,” she said.
“We filed a police report. The officer was careful with his words, the way they always are at the beginning. He couldn’t promise outcomes, but he gave me the one thing I needed to hear. Uploads leave trails. platforms keep logs, leads can be followed. That was enough to move to the next step, proving what the video actually was.
I didn’t need to become a forensic expert. I needed credible confirmation. Through the lawyer, we got an expert to look at it. He paused the video on the line where Vivian says, “My mom got me the answers.” “Right there,” he said. He replayed it slowly. The sound hit first. The mouth followed a fraction late. The shape of the word didn’t match the teeth.
“Now look here,” he said, tapping the screen at the edge of her jaw. The outline shimmerred for a frame, then settled. “That’s a blend artifact.” He skipped ahead a second, paused again. “The background jumps,” he added. “See the couch? It shifts, then snaps back. That doesn’t happen in a real recording.” He leaned back.
This isn’t authentic. It’s fabricated. Write that, I said. He did. Three lines on letterhead. Clear enough for anyone to read. I took a photo of it. In the car, Vivien sat with her phone face down in her lap. I know I didn’t say it, she said. But can you prove it’s fake in a way they’ll believe? I turned the phone so she could see the letter. Yes.
At home, I opened the family chat. The link was still there. This video is fake. I typed. An expert confirmed it. Then I pasted the three points from the letter and attached the photo. Please stop sharing it. It’s been reported and is being investigated. Replies came in fast. I deleted it. I’m sorry.
Who would do this to a kid? Viven stood behind me. Do they know who did it? Not yet, I said. Later that night, the program emailed again, still under review, but different. They acknowledged the video could be manipulated and said they would not treat it as a verified statement. Viven read it once, then again. Near midnight, my grandmother called. Vivien took the phone.
I saw it, my grandmother said. and Vivien asked. It isn’t you, she said. I know my girl. After she hung up, Vivien looked at me. So, we’re okay. We’re okay, I said. And we’re not done. Because the video was fake. We proved that. The only thing left unanswered was the one question no one was ready to say out loud yet.
Who did it? Time does something strange after a crisis. It stretches. It compresses. You look back and realize you lived weeks in a haze of adrenaline and phone calls and trying to keep your child’s world from cracking. Viven stayed in the gifted program. That is the first thing you need to know. The video did not take her future. It tried.
It failed. Viven also stayed close to my grandmother. When my grandmother finally called, her voice was steady. “I know, my girl,” she said simply. Vivien cried harder at that than she did at the video itself. Weeks turned into months. Investigation turned into paperwork. Paperwork turned into court dates that I did not describe to Viven in detail because she was 13 and she deserved to keep being 13.
But I was there when it mattered. The upload trail led back to Monica. Platforms keep logs. Investigators follow them. Anonymous lasts right up until someone asks for records. Monica took a plea deal, 200 hours of community service, a year of probation, and a no contact order with Viven. She also had to remove and stop distributing the video and any copies of it.
The judge called it what it was, harassment aimed at a minor. Her community service landed with community corrections, weekend work crew, bright vest, trash bags, park cleanup, the kind of work you can’t spin into a story about being misunderstood. My parents weren’t charged, but the family stopped treating them like harmless background characters.
Invitations dried up. Group chats went quiet. People got busy. Funny how that happens. My grandmother finalized the trust without fanfare. $150,000 for Viven, locked until 18, limited early distributions for education and programs that support her future, and a trustee who doesn’t share our last name. Monica was cut out.
My parents were cut out. It was all handled the way my grandmother handles everything. Signatures, dates, done. Then we went back to school days. Vivien dove into the program, complained about the workload, lit up when she talked about it. The reunion blurred, but Grandma June’s sentence didn’t. You really don’t know who she is.
Did I do the right thing going to the police over that video? Comment below and subscribe for more stories.
