My father had known.
Maybe not the exact amount.
But enough to know Grandpa had left something in my name.
He had gone to the bank.
Asked questions.
Been denied access.
Then seven months earlier, when I came home after my breakup and asked for a temporary place to stay, he let me move in.
At the time, I thought that meant some part of him wanted to help his daughter.
Now I had to reconsider everything.
Had he been waiting for me to mention Grandpa?
Waiting for the card?
Waiting for me to offer money?
Had Vanessa known something too?
Had Mom?
I could not prove every motive.
What I did know was this:
Dad had tried to obtain information about my account.
And he had never told me.
Arthur connected me with a financial advisor.
We spent almost two hours going through the account.
How it was structured.
My options.
What I should and should not do impulsively.
I opened a new personal account.
Transferred the funds into accounts under my control.
Made sure nobody else had access.
By noon on Christmas Day, I was still the same woman who had spent the night drinking diner coffee.
But I was no longer financially trapped.
I called my friend Simone.
She had already been texting me.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
Please call me.
When I finally told her what happened, she started crying before I did.
“Rachel, why didn’t you call me last night?”
“I didn’t want to ruin your Christmas.”