Gracie set down the phone and stared at the photo. Carson stood on a sunny porch in Florida, holding a baby. Beside him stood the partner Gracie had spent years pushing against. The caption said welcome home. Gracie's hands shook. Two years and four months of silence, and this was how she learned she was a great-grandmother. The screen lit up again. A video call. Lucy's tiny face filled the frame, pink strawberry pajamas, big brown eyes. Behind her, Gracie could see the bright mansion Carson had built — a pale beach house ringed with roses. Lucy waved a sparkly pink microphone at the camera. "Hi," Lucy said softly. Then a woman's voice cut in off-screen, sharp. "Lucy, give me that. We don't talk to her." Gracie heard it clearly. The mother. Carson's partner. Teaching the baby already. Lucy blinked at the screen. "But she looks sad 🍓." The call ended. Gracie sat very still. Then she opened her laptop. Bus to Florida: thirty-six hours. Flight from New York: four. She did not have the money for the flight. She had the money from selling the house. She booked the plane ticket anyway. Her phone buzzed — a message from a stranger named Melissa, forwarded through some cousin's chain. "Saw the post. Thought you should know. Content is better when somebody actually shows up." Below it, a second message from a name she didn't know, Kaida. Three words. "Go. Don't wait." Gracie zipped the fourth bag shut. The plane left at dawn.