I had barely been asleep for forty minutes when my phone lit up the dark room, pulling me out of a deep and much-needed rest.
At sixty-three, I no longer find it easy to fall asleep. Even when I’m exhausted, I wake up at the slightest noise. That night in Tallahassee, I had finally drifted off into a deep sleep when the glow of my phone told me something was wrong.
After more than three decades as a family lawyer, he had learned one thing: calls in the middle of the night rarely bring good news.
I reached for my glasses, knocking a book to the floor in the process, and answered as soon as I saw the name.
Daisy.
My granddaughter.
“Daisy, honey, what’s wrong?” I asked, my heart already racing.
At first, I only heard her breathing: irregular, fragile, as if she were trying to hold it in.
“Grandpa…” he whispered.
That single word carried more weight than any other.
“I’m here. Tell me what happened,” I said, getting out of bed.
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