I worked harder than anyone in the office. I stayed late, came in early, took the cases others passed on because they were too complex or politically sensitive. By my second year, I was handling major cases—fraud, corruption, white-collar crimes that required weeks of document review.
I quickly built a reputation: meticulous, prepared, relentless. The work consumed me. Seventy-hour weeks were the norm. I lived on coffee, takeout, and the satisfaction of seeing justice served. My personal life was non-existent. No dates, no happy hours; there was no time for anything but work and Sunday dinners with Grandpa. Those dinners remained sacred. No matter how tired I was, I showed up. And he never missed them either, even as he hit his eighties and moved a little slower.
During that time, Diane called once. I was twenty-eight. I hadn’t spoken to her in three years. She wanted help with a legal problem Steve was having—some business dispute. I asked how she got my number; she said Grandpa gave it to her. I made a mental note to talk to him about boundaries. Then I told her I was a criminal prosecutor, not a civil lawyer. And even if I were, I wouldn’t help Steve with anything. She called me ungrateful. I hung up.
Grandpa apologized later. She’d cornered him, crying about how her daughter wouldn’t talk to her. He should have known better, but he was a softie at heart. I wasn’t mad. Diane was a master manipulator; she always had been.
— “It’s okay, Grandpa. But please, don’t give her any more information about my life. She lost the right to know those things a long time ago.”
When I turned thirty, Grandpa threw me a small birthday party at his house. Just close friends, people I’d known since I was a kid. Judge Mark Miller was there. He’d been Grandpa’s clerk twenty-five years ago and was now a respected judge himself. We talked for a long time that night about the law, about interesting cases, about maintaining ethics in a system that often rewards compromise.
— “Your grandfather talks about you constantly,” he told me. “He’s incredibly proud of the woman you’ve become.”
It caught in my throat. Grandpa rarely expressed pride directly, but knowing he said it to others meant everything to me.
— “He saved me,” I said quietly. “He and my grandmother. They gave me everything.”
Judge Miller nodded.
— “He told me about your parents, about how they left you. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
— “Don’t be,” I replied. “If they had raised me, I’d probably be a very different person, and not a better one.”
Looking back, I don’t think I fully realized what Grandpa sacrificed to raise me. He was fifty-five when I moved in for good. That’s the age when most people are planning their golden years. Instead, he got an infant, then a toddler, then a moody teenager. He never complained. He was just there. Every single day. And he loved me.
Grandpa retired when I was twenty-seven. Over forty years on the bench. It was a huge event. Retirement parties, awards from every legal organization in the state. He took it all with dignity, but I could see he was ready. Ready to stop carrying the weight of other people’s problems. Ready to just be a man, not an institution.
We talked about traveling. Italy, Ireland. He had a whole list. But his health started to decline slowly. Nothing dramatic. Just the wear and tear of a long life. Fatigue, aches, a general slowing down. He didn’t complain, but I noticed. I started visiting more often, not just on Sundays. I’d drop by on weeknights too, bring dinner, make sure he was taking his meds. At first, he protested. Said I was treating him like an invalid. Но I knew he appreciated it. The house was so quiet without Grandma, without the work that filled his days. He needed someone to talk to.
— “You know,” he said one evening, “raising you was the greatest privilege of my life.”
I looked up from my paperwork. His gaze was soft, reflective.
— “I mean it. Your grandmother and I got to be parents twice. First with Diane, then with you. And honestly, the second time was better. Maybe because we were older and wiser. Maybe because we knew how fast it goes. Or maybe because you were just an extraordinary kid who was easy to love.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
— “You and Grandma saved me. I don’t know what would have happened to me if you hadn’t stepped in.”
He shook his head.
— “We didn’t save you, Allison. We just loved you. You saved yourself. You decided who you wanted to be, despite everything. That was all you.”
Those conversations are what I miss most. That feeling of being fully known and accepted. Having someone who believes in you unconditionally. Not many people get that even once in a lifetime. I got it twice…
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