Grandpa apologized for the wrong thing first.

“I should have kicked her sooner.”

“No.”

He stared.

“What?”

“You’re in anger-management, remember?”

He grunted.

Then tried again.

“I should have gotten upstairs faster.”

“Still not it.”

He knew.

Finally:

“I shouldn’t have stepped on her after the bat was down.”

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t have said she would pay.”

“Yes.”

He looked irritated.

“I hate being corrected by children.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Exactly.”

Then he became serious.

“I scared you.”

I had not expected that.

“What?”

“You had just watched violence. Then I added more after you and Leo were safe.”

I thought.

“Yes.”

Not because I feared Grandpa would hurt me.

Because the room felt like nobody knew how to stop.

One person attacked.

I struck her.

She attacked.

Grandpa kicked.

Then stepped on her.

Violence chaining itself forward.

Grandpa nodded.

“That part is mine.”

We never discussed it again in those exact words.

We did not need to.