The Invoice
Melissa called on a Tuesday, and her voice had the particular quality of someone asking for a favor while trying to sound like they’re offering one.
“Jason has to travel for work,” she said, “and the children keep asking about you. You should come stay with us for a week. The kids would love it.”
I said yes immediately, which I am not ashamed of, because my grandchildren were the reason and the grandchildren were reason enough. Emma was six and Thomas was four, and I had not seen them since Christmas, which was seven months ago and which was too long. When you are sixty-eight years old and your grandchildren are six and four, seven months is a meaningful fraction of the time you have with them at these ages, and you do not turn down the invitation.
I packed the strawberry jam I had made in June from the strawberries in my garden, four jars, because Thomas liked it on toast and Emma liked it on everything. I packed the small quilts I had been making for both of them, hand-stitched, which I had been working on since February. I packed gifts I had found at the market, nothing extravagant, the specific kinds of small things that a grandmother accumulates for grandchildren throughout the year and distributes when the opportunity arrives.
I drove four hours to their house in the suburb outside Columbus.
Emma and Thomas came out the front door when they heard my car, which is one of the best things that exists in this life, small children running toward you, and I knelt on the driveway in my good slacks and let them collide with me and held them for a long moment.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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