My girl, I’m so glad you’re enjoying the apartment I got you. Grandpa beamed across the brunch table, raising his mimosa like it was just another warm family moment. The air stilled. I froze mid-sip, the orange juice burning down my throat. Eyes darted toward me from all directions. My mom’s painted lips parted in confusion. My sister looked up from her phone, and my dad, my dad dropped his fork. It hit the porcelain plate with a sharp clink. I could feel my heartbeat behind my eyes as the silence grew dense. I glanced down, wiped my hands on the napkin in my lap, then looked up at Grandpa. I live in a basement, I whispered. His smile faltered.
What? I never got any apartment, I said, louder this time. My voice was even, steady. I wasn’t about to cry here, not after all these years.
A hush dropped like a storm cloud. I felt it in my bones. What are you talking about? Grandpa asked, blinking in slow motion.
Before we begin, drop a comment and tell us where are you from and from which city you’re watching our videos. And after watching the whole video, don’t forget to tell us what would you do in this situation. Be honest, tell me in the comments below.
We read every comment. Let’s begin. The room shifted.
My mom reached for her coffee, hands trembling just enough to spill a drop. My sister stopped chewing. Dad coughed, then reached for his water, like he had something stuck in his throat.
Truth, maybe. I looked around at all of them. You never sent me anything, Grandpa, I said again, calmly.
I’ve been living in a windowless basement for four years. The only gift I’ve gotten from this family in a decade was silence. Wait, hold on, Grandpa said, pushing his chair back a few inches.
I wired the down payment to your dad. Four years ago. He told me he surprised you with it after graduation.
My mouth went dry. A shiver ran up my spine, but I forced myself to breathe. Dad’s face had gone pale, ashen.
My mom turned to him slowly. You said you helped her find a cute place downtown, she whispered her voice tight. Dad, I asked, locking eyes with him.
He shifted uncomfortably. I… I meant to… No. I cut in.
You meant to keep it. A gasp escaped from someone’s lips. Grandpa sat back in his chair, lips pressed together, knuckles white against the edge of the table.
He looked like he’d been sucker-punched. I sat straighter, my voice steady but sharp. You told me to work harder, to stop expecting handouts.
All that time, you let me scrub other people’s floors while you pocketed the money that was meant to give me a start. The air was venomous now. Thick.
Hot. It crackled with unspoken truths. I stood up, hands still shaking, heart pounding.
I wasn’t going to say anything today. But since we’re celebrating birthdays, maybe it’s time we all stopped pretending. And I walked out.
Behind me, chairs screeched back. Footsteps fumbled. I didn’t stop.
The hallway outside the restaurant was quiet, but the rage boiling inside me was anything but. I could still feel every pair of eyes on me from that table. The shock.
The guilt. The discomfort they finally deserved. I didn’t cry.
Not this time. As I reached the parking lot, I heard footsteps behind me. Fast ones.
Kayla, wait! Grandpa called out. I turned. He looked older than he did twenty minutes ago.
His smile was gone, replaced by something I hadn’t seen from him in years. Pure, unfiltered sorrow. You seriously never got the apartment? I shook my head.
I’ve been renting a basement from a woman who smokes. So much her walls are yellow. There’s a boiler next to my bed.
My rent’s paid in cash, because she doesn’t believe in banks. I’ve eaten dinner sitting on the floor more nights than I can count. He swallowed.
Your father said you didn’t want help. That you were being independent. My chest rose.
I asked him for a job lead once. He said, and I quote, Try flipping burgers first. Builds character.
Grandpa’s eyes flicked down. He said you were ungrateful. That you moved into your dream place without even thanking him.
A bitter laugh escaped me. I didn’t know there was anything to thank him for. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed.
I trusted him. I didn’t reply. The silence stretched, but I didn’t fill it.
Then he said something that surprised me. I want to fix this. I folded my arms.
How? I want to see where you live. My head snapped up. Why? Because if it’s as bad as you say, and I believe it is, then he stole from both of us.
And I’m done letting anyone lie to me. That night, I drove Grandpa to my place. He didn’t say much as I led him down the crumbling side steps to the basement door.
The overhead bulb flickered as I unlocked it. The scent of old cigarettes and mildew greeted us. I stepped aside.
Welcome to my palace. He stepped inside, looked around slowly, at the second-hand couch, the leaning bookcase, the stained ceiling tiles, the tiny bed pushed up against the laundry machine. His face didn’t change for several seconds.
Then he sat on the edge of my bed and let out the saddest exhale I’d ever heard. This is what you’ve been living in? I nodded, since college ended. His eyes got glassy.
He said he was saving the rest for your wedding. I thought it made sense at the time. There is no rest.
My voice was flat. You gave him $70,000. That money disappeared the moment it hit his account.
Grandpa looked at the floor. Then back at me. Not anymore.
He stood. Tomorrow, he said, we’re going to the bank. And the lawyer.
And after that, I think your dad and I need to have a very long conversation. I didn’t smile. But inside, something stirred.
A shift. Like I had finally cracked the glass everyone else had been watching me through. The next morning, I woke up to the smell of burnt coffee and the sound of Grandpa on the phone, talking to his lawyer.