Chapter 8: Grandma

HELENE

I had barely driven out of the villa compound where the Laurents lived when an incoming call notification lit up the dashboard screen.

Grandma.

I used to think that after all these years—and with the memories of my past life—I had successfully detached myself from whatever the Laurents did.

But the moment I saw her name, my eyes began to sting.

How could I not feel anything?

How could I not harbor resentment?

I had tried—truly tried—to fit into that family. And in the end, I had been left with nothing.

Of course I felt indignant.

Of course I felt hurt.

I had simply learned how to bury it.

The road ahead became blurred.

I quickly pulled over to the side, rolled down the window, and drew in a slow breath of air, trying to calm myself.

Only after forcing a smile onto my face did I answer the call.

“Grandma,” I called softly.

“Sweetheart,” came her bright, energetic voice, “your grandpa and I mailed some freshly harvested produce to you yesterday. Have you received it yet?”

I instinctively shook my head before realizing she couldn’t see me.

“No, not yet. Maybe there was a delay.”

“What?” she exclaimed, clearly displeased. “If it takes too long, it’ll spoil. I paid extra and reminded them repeatedly that it had to arrive within a day.”

A crease formed between my brows.

“I was planning to visit this weekend anyway. You didn’t have to go through that trouble.”

“I just wanted you to taste it sooner,” she replied in a faintly sulking tone.

My expression softened immediately.

“Don’t worry. I’ll check again when I get home. It might already be there.”

“It better be,” she huffed. “Or I’ll give that delivery company a piece of my mind if the produce goes bad!”

A small laugh escaped me. Ever since she started running the farm, her temper had grown noticeably fiercer.

“How are you and Grandpa?” I asked gently. “Don’t overwork yourselves.”

If it were up to me, I would rather see them traveling the world in retirement instead of tending fields under the sun. But neither of them had ever been the type to sit still.

“Don’t worry about us,” she said proudly. “We’re still in our prime. Even among our peers, our health is the envy of many.”

Amusement sparkled in my eyes.

With how enthusiastically she flaunted it, she had probably ruffled more than a few feathers.

“As long as you’re happy,” I said softly. “But still, take care of yourselves.”

“Okay, okay, you little nag,” she teased.

A comfortable silence followed.

Then—

“Are you… alright?”

She knew.

The realization struck instantly. No matter how carefully I had masked my voice, she still managed to sense it.

A surge of suppressed grievance rose in my chest, clogging my throat.

“I—”

I meant to say I’m fine.

Instead, a sob slipped out.

A deep sigh came from the other end.

“I truly don’t understand what goes on in that daughter of mine and her husband’s minds,” she muttered. “How can they keep breaking the heart of such a sweet child?”

My tears fell harder.

“Forget them,” she continued firmly. “There are plenty of blind and heartless parents in this world. It’s not your fault they cannot tell right from wrong.”

“So don’t let yourself drown in sadness for too long. Your grandpa and I will love you twice as much to make up for it. And in the future, there will be others who cherish you too.”

“Hm,” I managed through tears. “You two are enough for me.”

I deliberately ignored the latter half of her sentence.

After a moment, I gathered the courage to voice a question I had buried for years.

“Grandma…” My voice was barely above a whisper. “Is it… okay if I don’t want to acknowledge them anymore?”

I had expected hesitation, after all, renunciation was no joking matter.

But there was none.

“Of course not,” she replied without pause, her tone firm. “There is no law in this world that says a child must stay by parents who repeatedly hurt them without remorse.”

Her supportive stance made something inside me snap.

I broke down completely, crying out years of hurt and grievance I had swallowed and stored away.

The entire time, she neither interrupted, nor hung up.

She simply listened.

When the storm finally subsided and I regained control of myself, embarrassment flooded in.

If I combined the ages of both lifetimes, I would be well into my forties.

And yet, here I was, crying like a child.

“Grandma…” I murmured awkwardly.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she said gently, relief filling her voice. “To be honest, I’ve always worried about how mature you act, as if nothing ever affects you. Now that you’ve finally cried and let it out, I can finally feel at ease.”

I found myself momentarily speechless.

Meanwhile, her voice took on a lighter tone.

“If you really can’t stand the city anymore, you’re always welcome here. We could use a permanent farmhand.”

“Okay,” I replied without much hesitation.

A change of environment might not be a bad idea.

“What?” she nearly shouted. “You agreed?”

I blinked. “Yes. My job doesn’t require me to stay in the city anyway.”

“You silly child!” she scolded quickly. “I was joking! Who told you to take it seriously?”

“If you leave, who will take care of the house—and those plants? Don’t tell me you’ll hire someone. No one could possibly tend to them the way you do.”

Perhaps realizing she might sound a little too unwelcoming , her voice softened.

“It’s not that I don’t want you here. But this is only a small county—a place you once complained about yourself. Even if your job isn’t tied to the city, there are still opportunities there you shouldn’t give up so lightly.”

She paused before continuing, more gently this time.

“Of course, if you still want to come in the future, I won’t stop you. But I want it to be after careful consideration—not a spur-of-the-moment decision made because you’re hurting.”

A brief silence followed.

“Do you understand?”

“I do,” I replied quietly. “I’ll listen to you.”

After asking a little more about Grandpa and the farm, the call finally ended.

Silence settled inside the car.

I adjusted the side mirror toward myself, and found red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks staring back at me.

Reaching into the glove compartment, I took out a pack of wet wipes and cleaned my face slowly, methodically.

Then I sat there for a while, unmoving.

When my thoughts finally steadied, I picked up my phone.

I opened a recent chat window.

And typed:

[I need Lucien’s private number.]

Then I pressed send.