“Y’hear me? I said I don’t have a daughter and I don’t know any ‘Grace.’”

I find the second envelope I put in my bag this morning and take out the photo of Charlie, Meg, and Grace as a toddler.

“Look, this is her, Megan, your daughter.” I step closer to him. His old flesh shakes, the corner of the photo curls as he stares at his younger self. His scowl deepens, but he doesn’t say anything, so I point to the image and say again, “This is Megan and this is Grace, Meg’s daughter, your granddaughter.”

Both Meg and Grace are beaming at the camera like their lives depend on it. It seems impossible those two smiling faces could be related to this man who, though small and shaking, is hard as a knot. His rheumy eyes wince down at the photo and he raises one shaky finger, twisted and gnarled as ancient oak, and holds it over the photo; it shakes like he’s casting a spell.

“That’s not Grace.” He hisses something then; it sounds like a name but I can’t make it out, and before I can say “Pardon?” he lurches forward in his chair. Spit gathers at the corner of his mouth and he lifts his clouded eyes to me.

“She’s sick!” he shouts. “Don’t you people understand? She should never have been born! She’s sick!” His mouth curls and quivers around his ugly words.

I pull the photo away. I don’t want him to see them anymore. I want to shake him, kick him for saying this shit about Grace, but his whole body is already rattling as he keeps shouting, spitting and hateful. I can’t be near him, this hard ball of bitterness, so I turn and run out of his room, past a nurse who’s walking fast towards us, her mouth a grim, resigned line.

“What happened?” she asks but I don’t stop, I can’t because he’s still shouting, his words chasing me down the corridor. “She’s sick! She should never have been born!”

Jon’s staring out of the windshield into space when I run back to the car. I’m too upset to be embarrassed about crying in front of him. He hands me tissues and tells me his dad had dementia, that towards the end Jon tried to stop his mum from visiting him because she’d always leave in tears after he’d called her by the wrong name or said something hurtful. He says it’s the cruelty of the disease, not Charlie himself, that I shouldn’t take anything he said seriously.

He’s right. I raise a small smile and a damp “Thanks,” and I’m relieved Charlie and his rattling words don’t follow us as we drive back to Ashford in silence.

Mum must still be at the salon because the house is empty when I get home. I go into my room and try to smooth out the photo and the thank-you card as best I can, prop them up against the water glass on my bedside table. I was stupid to think Dr. Rossi and Charlie would be glad to have them. Jon must think I’m a child, crying when my naive plan didn’t work out. I’m surprised he didn’t laugh in my face.