A widowed grandmother spends months counting down to her summer visit with her grandchildren. But one unexpected phone call from her son turns her excitement into doubt, forcing her to question everything she thought she knew about her family.
The kitchen was quiet, the way it had been every morning for the last four years. I poured my coffee and looked at the calendar on the fridge, where I had circled the summer visit dates in red marker back in February.
Three weeks to go.
Photos of Emma and Bob covered the freezer door, held up by magnets shaped like little sunflowers.
I had already wrapped the gifts. A dollhouse for Emma. A wooden train set for Bob.
They sat by the front door in a neat stack, next to the small suitcase I had packed two weeks early because I could not help myself.
At sixty-four, I had learned that waiting was easier when your hands were busy.
My husband used to laugh at me for that.
“You’re packing in May for a July trip, Lou?” he would say.
“I like being ready,” I would tell him.
He had been gone four years now. The grandchildren were the only thing that still made the calendar feel like it was moving forward instead of standing still.
I sipped my coffee and thought about December. Emma had fallen asleep on my chest during a Christmas movie, her little hand curled around my thumb.
Bob had cried at the airport and made me bend down so he could whisper into my ear.
“Pinky promise, baby.”
I smiled at the memory, then frowned at my phone.
Elliot’s last three texts had been short. Cold, almost. “Busy week, Mom.” “We’ll talk soon, Mom.” A video call he had scheduled and then quietly canceled without a reason.
I told myself he was just tired.
Work was hard. Two kids were hard. A new girlfriend in the house was probably hard too, though he had barely told me anything about Marissa beyond her name.
“He’s a grown man,” I said out loud to the empty kitchen.
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