felt frighteningly small.
Bone and cotton and warm skin.
For most of my life, Grandma had been solid.
She carried laundry baskets.
Moved furniture.
Picked me up when I was far too old to be picked up.
Now I was afraid my hug might hurt her.
She patted my back.
“You’re making a scene.”
“You wrote the letter.”
“Years ago.”
“That’s worse.”
She laughed softly.
Then Lily reached for the box.
Naturally.
Her first target was a blue glass button.
“No,” three generations of women said at once.
Everybody laughed again.
We did cake 20 minutes later.
Grandma refused a full slice.
Then ate half of mine.
She stayed for less than two hours.
That was all her body could manage.
By the time my uncle wheeled her toward the gate, her face had gone pale again.
I walked beside her.
“Was this worth it?”
She looked at me like
