My parents said to Grandma that they were taking her out to lunch. Three hours later, a nursing facility called me. Her suitcase was sitting in their lobby, and my parents were nowhere to be found.

I called my father, Arthur. It went straight to voicemail.

Then my mother, Wendy. Same thing.

I drove 190 miles with both hands locked around the steering wheel.

When I got there, Grandma was sitting beside a single brown suitcase and a grocery bag packed with medications. She was still wearing her church coat even though the lobby was warm. Her gray hair remained carefully pinned, and her face had that calm, stone-cold expression it always took on whenever she was furious.

I crouched beside her. “Grandma.”