“Morning, granddaughter.” She smiles enthusiastically. Not her usual reaction to my tardiness. Suspicious. Her white-blond hair is pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing a Grams standard—a purple, blue, and white ascot with a white blouse and slacks.

The kitchen table’s decked out: French toast, a bowl of balled fruits, bacon, and sausage.

I blink at her, “What is all this? Are you posing for a cooking portrait?”

She tilts her head. “Sure, get your damn easel out. I can’t stand here all day.”

I skeptically make my way over. “Is this a you were evicted homemade pity breakfast?”

Grams steps out of portrait mode and takes her seat at the head of the table. “Excuse me, I wanted to share an early homemade meal with my granddaughter to celebrate her moving back home. Is that a crime?”

I raise my brow, studying her carefully. “It’s suspicious.”

She serves me an intimidating single brow raise of her own.

I grin. “But it doth look delicious. Thank you, Grams.”

There’s paperwork waiting next to my place setting. Great. I nod toward the printout. “What’s that? New demands from dear old Dad?”

Of course, he’s too busy to be here and enforce his own decrees. This is definitely a pity breakfast.

Grams sighs and motions me to sit. “Nothing new, you’re all moved back in. It’s time to start following through on his contract.”

The guttural despair of all-consuming failure slithers through me. I shove it down. I got out of this house once. I’ll save enough money and take on enough work to get my ass out again.

I waggle my eyebrows and start loading my plate. “Lay it on me.”

Grams spoons a heap of balled fruit onto her plate. “You have to decide today about the first clause.”

Ah yes, the first clause, mandated therapy. A healthy mind equals a healthy career. I’m to: Schedule a weekly appointment with Dr. Ronnie (one of Dad’s many exes) or sign up for that retreat your grandmother’s been talking about.

Grams serves me a spoonful of fruit without asking. “Weekly therapy with Ronnie or should we get you locked in at Rediscover Yourself? That one starts tomorrow. We’ll have to get you scheduled on a flight, but you could knock this clause out in seven days and be done with it. Just fill out the paperwork.” She taps the sheet on the table between us.

What a time to be alive.

I pull the paper closer and grab the pen Grams left next to it.

REDISCOVER YOURSELF, with us!—PREP SHEET

What do you want?

“What do you want?” I scoff. “What kind of question is that?”

Grams doesn’t look up as she cuts up a slice of French toast. “It’s a straightforward one, granddaughter. I think you can handle it,” she snarks.

I click the pen.