Chapter 11 - Melissa's Side of the Door
Grandma did not take the money.
She did go inside Melissa's house.
I stayed on the porch because Grandma gave me the look that meant stop hovering.
Through the window, I could see them sitting at the kitchen table.
No yelling.
No dramatic gestures.
Just two women who had spent weeks being furious at each other.
Twenty minutes later, Grandma came out without the envelope.
"Well?"
"She's scared."
"Of what?"
Grandma looked back at the house.
"Everything. Mostly him. Maybe herself too."
I didn't like where that sentence seemed to point.
"Grandma, don't make excuses for her."
"I'm not."
"She helped destroy your yard."
"I know."
"She stood there while he kicked Grandpa's pumpkin."
"I know."
Grandma snapped it that time.
Then she softened.
"Knowing why somebody does something isn't the same as saying it's okay."
Melissa had admitted more.
She said Brent had become obsessed with how the house looked after moving into the neighborhood. He wanted everything neat. Quiet. Controlled. When Grandma ignored him, he stewed over it for days.
Melissa went along.
Not because she was helpless.
Because, in her own words, "I wanted her to stop too."
That mattered to Grandma.
"She didn't blame him for all of it," she said.
"Good."
"She said she cut the lights."
I stopped walking.
"She admitted that?"
Grandma nodded.
"And she said she'll tell the police."
The next day, she did.
Brent did not take it well.
At 6:14 that evening, we heard shouting next door.
Then a door slammed.
Melissa came across the lawn carrying a suitcase and Pickles under one arm.
She walked straight to Grandma's porch.
"Can I sit here for five minutes?"
Grandma opened the door.
Before Melissa stepped inside, Brent appeared at the edge of his driveway.
"Melissa!"
She froze.
Grandma stepped between them.
And Brent kept walking toward the porch.
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