I unpacked my single suitcase in the guest room and told myself this was love, not a transaction.
The first morning, Linda was already in the kitchen, pouring tea into Grandma Margaret’s favorite cup.
“She doesn’t like sugar anymore,” Linda told me without looking up. “And she’ll ask you three times if the door is locked. Just answer her each time.”
I told myself this was love, not a transaction.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
Linda finally glanced at me. “You’ll see. She’s not the woman you remember.”
***
The years blurred into routines. Doctor visits on Tuesdays. Walks in the garden when her legs allowed it. Buttoning her blouse when her fingers trembled.
I read to her in the evenings while she stared at the window.
“Your hair is too long,” Grandma said once, not turning her head. “And that dress. Where did you find that dress, Emily?”
The years blurred into routines.
“It was on sale, Grandma.”
“Hmm.”
That was the closest we came to
conversation
most nights.
