Every January, without fail, I wired forty thousand dollars to my son-in-law, Calvin Brooks. I didn’t do it because he asked politely or because I had money to spare. I did it because of a promise I made to my daughter, Melissa, before she died. Melissa, my only child, had always been the kind of person to think of others first. As a little girl, she would apologize to the family dog if she stepped on his paw, and as an adult, she baked extra pies during the holidays for the elderly couple across the street. If anyone deserved a long and peaceful life filled with laughter and grandchildren, it was her.

But seven years ago, that peace was shattered. Melissa died in a crash on Highway 24. The sentence “She’s gone” became the walls of my life. A state trooper told us at three in the morning, the words a heavy weight that crushed all possibility of a future without her. The fire from the crash had been so intense that there was almost nothing left of her body. In the days that followed, I heard the same painful sentence from the funeral director, from Calvin, and then from the empty, silent urn that sat on our mantel for weeks—a monument to grief. After that, things only got harder. My wife, Dorothy, couldn’t bear the loss, and six months later, she passed as well, her body worn down by the weight of sorrow.

In the years that followed, my life narrowed down to three things: Grant Family Market, my granddaughter Ava, and the yearly ritual of sending money to the man who was raising her. The market, a small but enduring grocery store on the corner of Baker Street, had been my father’s legacy. It smelled of bananas, sliced deli meats, and the lemon cleaner we used on the floors. It was familiar, steady, and it kept me from dwelling too deeply on the empty spaces in my life. But Ava, my sweet granddaughter, was the real reason I got out of bed each day. She was the only piece of my daughter still left in this world, the one link to the joy Melissa had once brought into my life.

Ava was seven years old now, thin as a reed with boundless energy and a smile so bright it reminded me of her mother. Every other Saturday, I’d take her to Riverbend Park for ice cream. She’d order strawberry swirl, and I’d stick with my usual chocolate chip. Sitting on a bench beneath a giant oak tree, we’d chat about her school, her friends, and whatever small triumphs had occurred in the past week. One afternoon, though, as we sat eating our ice cream, something shifted. Ava, who had been bubbly and proud, suddenly grew serious. She leaned in close, her eyes darting nervously toward the playground, and whispered, “Grandpa, please stop sending him money. I frowned, confused. “What do you mean, sweetheart?-