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“That’s not love.”

“No. That was fear.”

“Fear doesn’t excuse it.”

“I’m not excusing anything.” Grandma’s tone remained calm. “She will have to answer for the lie. She may have to earn every inch of trust back. But, Hudson, you are asking whether every tender moment became false when the silver didn’t burn her.”

I looked down. I thought of Sloane with Caldwell. Sloane kneeling beside Grandma’s breaker box even though she understood none of the wiring. Sloane laughing with Patty. Sloane melting beneath my hands while we danced.

“I think parts were real,” I said.

“Which parts?”

“The way she cared about Caldwell.”

Grandma nodded.

“The way she listened.”

Another nod.

“The way she worried about everyone.”

“Yes.”

“The way she looked at me.”

Grandma didn’t respond. She let me reach the conclusion myself.

“I believe she loved me.”

The admission hurt. It also relieved something.

“Then start there,” Grandma said.

“I don’t know what comes after that.”

“You ask her.”

“She might lie.”

She nodded. “She might. She might also tell the truth.”

“I won’t know which.”

“That’s the problem with trust. It doesn’t come with a certificate of authenticity.”

“I wish it did.”

Grandma patted my arm. “You were trying to become the perfect blueprint because your father failed.”

I stiffened. “This isn’t about him.”

She pinned me with a look. “No one has ever expected you to spend your entire life proving you are not your father. Your mother certainly didn’t. I didn’t. The pack didn’t.”

I looked away.

Grandma continued gently. “You decided the opposite of an unfaithful, selfish man was someone who never chose himself at all. You made yourself into a plan. A schedule. A collection of correct responses.”