Fifty

Isobelle

I should have known. I should have been able to spot all the signs. They were there all along, staring me right in the face all this time. My grandfather’s eyes changed color whenever he got angry, just like the quads. I was convinced I heard him growl on several occasions. My grandma used to joke about the full moon affecting his mood swings, but I thought she was being facetious. He used to disappear for days on end, only to come back with his clothing in tatters and covered in dirt. Nan told us he enjoyed one tipple too many at the Royal British Legion, and that he would wander off in a drunken stupor. These things seemed so trivial as I was growing up, witnessing them occurring time and time again, so often, I had taken them all for granted.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line before Mum spoke, “I’m so sorry, Izzy. Can you ever forgive me?”

Could I forgive her? Right now, I want to throw a bloody tantrum. How could she keep something like this from me?

My