But in the end, Charles crushed it all with a single document—a diagnosis from a doctor.
It stated, in clinical black and white, that I suffered from a psychiatric disorder.
No one doubts an attorney's word.
Every path was sealed shut.
I argued. I screamed. I even dropped to my knees and begged him to let me leave.
His eyes blazed with cold fury, indifferent and impatient.
"Have I been too lenient with you?"
"If you say one more word of this nonsense, I'll have the hospital stop your grandfather's treatment immediately."
My heart turned to ash. I didn't dare speak another word.
All I could do was tread carefully around him, terrified that one wrong move would push him to abandon Grandpa entirely.
But the call from the hospital came anyway.
It was a critical condition notice.
I nearly shattered. I rushed to the study to find him.
"Charles, Grandpa—he's dying. The hospital just called—"
My hands trembled as I held the phone out to him, my voice barely a whisper.
"This number doesn't lie. Please, just look at it. Please."
"Stop nagging."
His face twisted with irritation.
"You're really getting on my nerves."
He grabbed the phone and hurled it to the ground. The screen exploded into fragments.