The Truth About Us

You taught me it’s okay to disagree with my dad and that it’s okay to have a life. You taught me that we need to take risks and make our own choices. And even if we screw up, that’s okay, too. You taught me to live for myself instead of everyone else around me. You showed me what it’s like to put myself out there, even if it’s scary, to open my heart to someone. You taught me that love is worth fighting for. And maybe we’re young and I sound foolish because we’ve only gotten to know each other these last couple weeks, but it’s how I feel. It’s my truth.

Her eyes closed, her last thought a wish before sleep—for another way out of this. One in which justice was served, but her family was spared. One where her grandfather suddenly became the hero instead of the villain. One in which Kaden wouldn’t discover the truth, and she could go on living her life as is. One where Mr. Oliver approved of her.

She wished for a perfect world in which her family wouldn’t be torn in two, and she and Kaden could be together. But those wishes were merely dreams.

MORE STRESS ADDED TO her life was not something Abby needed. Of all the days to sleep in and be late, it had to be this morning. Never had she wanted to be out of the house more. Since Levine and his men hadn’t come busting into their house in the middle of the night, she assumed it would be any minute now.

She tried to ignore the sinking in the pit of her stomach and the way her lungs constricted with the thought she’d probably never share another meal with her grandfather. Their games of chess were over. No more summer swims in the pool or late-night barbecues. Worse than having no new memories to share was the knowledge the old ones were sullied. So, she focused on the anger inside of her, preferring it to the pain.

She bounded down the stairs, her dark hair hastily thrown back into a ponytail, make-up free, wearing a pair of jean shorts and a tank. But the moment her sandaled feet hit the landing, she knew it wouldn’t be a normal morning.

Her mother stood in front of the door, her hip cocked, arms folded tightly over her chest with a face twisted in anger. Abby bit her lip and continued to the door in the hopes she’d somehow slip past and save the lecture for another day. After all, as her mother would soon see, there were worse things than being late for school. Bigger issues to deal with.

Her mother guffawed. “No explanation for why you’re just now leaving for school?”

No such luck.

Abby pivoted. Knowing she was on thin ice already for refusing to explain the letter her mother found from GG, then fleeing her room to escape an explanation. She didn’t have much ground for an argument.

“I’m sorry. I slept in. My alarm didn’t go off,” she said, hoping the simple, yet truthful, explanation was enough.

“I got a phone call from the school. Apparently, you’ve missed quite a few days lately. Days I wasn’t aware of, including yesterday. I was also informed several of your teachers have expressed their concern over missing homework, flunked tests, and dropping grades. What in the world is going on?”

At Abby’s lack of response, her mother’s eyes hardened, and her spine turned to steel as the vein in her forehead pulsed with her anger. “I want an answer. A real one.”

Why now? Why, of all days, did she have to deal with this now?

“I’m sorry. I’ve had a hard time, okay? I don’t know what else to say.” Abby hugged her arms to her chest at the same time she spotted her grandfather appear at the end of the hallway. He shuffled closer to them, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he came out of concern for her or self-preservation. Like she might reveal to her mother all she knew.

The thought twisted her stomach, and for a moment, Abby wanted to say something, to shift the blame from herself to him, but she glanced back to her mother and the worry lines creasing her milky skin. The fear flickering in her mother’s gaze stopped her. Not now. Especially when he would be held accountable soon enough.

The front door opened, interrupting them. Her father flung it shut, hands on hips, lifting the sides of his suit coat as he stood in the doorway with narrowed eyes. “Your mother called me. I had to leave work—”

A thunderous knock on the door interrupted him.

“Who...” Her father spun around, his hand on the knob as knowing washed over Abby.

Oh, no.

“For goodness sakes!” her mother yelled, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “Who is it now?” She stopped speaking the second her father opened the door to reveal several uniformed officers, along with a cluster of men dressed in suits. One of them Abby recognized as Kenneth Levine.

“Ma’am.” The officer tipped his hat, his gaze zeroing in on her grandfather behind them. “We’re here for the man who goes by Yoel Gutman.”

Her mother stood motionless, mouth agape before stuttering her assent and motioning them in. Time blurred as an officer stepped inside and turned her grandfather around as he cuffed his wrists. Next to him, another officer read his Miranda Rights, while her mother demanded an explanation.

“What is going on?” her mother yelled. “Someone please tell me.”

“I’m calling our lawyer!” Her father pulled out his phone, his voice edged with panic.

All the noise drifted to the background as her grandfather’s eyes locked with hers. Abby barely heard Levine’s explanation. The officer reading her grandfather’s rights buzzed, a low hum in the background. All she could do was stare as everything else faded away. Anger and accusation mingling with sorrow, snapped between them like an electric current. The metal of the cuffs cut into his flesh, pressing into his brittle bones as they began to haul him toward the door while her mother sobbed.

In those moments, Abby saw the death of a man she had known. Her c

hildhood flickered like a faulty lightbulb before her eyes: him pushing her on the old tree swing, afternoons spent under the hot sun in the pool, GG and him taking her out for ice cream, presents on Christmas morning.

Like most things in life, the reality of this moment was far worse than the one she had envisioned in her mind. Watching nearly broke her, but she straightened her shoulders and steeled her resolve.

Words she stored for safe-keeping flowed from her heart. Bravery is a choice, Miss Bridges. It’s not inherent or given. It’s a choice we make. And real courage is tested not by those who simply make hard choices but by those who stand by them. Even in the face of fear and recrimination.