Daniel looked between us as if he had missed a meeting.
Dessert was awkward and lovely.
Emily showed me thirty-seven photographs.
Twenty-two were of the ocean.
Eight were of hotel breakfasts.
Four contained only her own fingers.
Jack showed me a shell he had found and explained that he had returned it to the beach because a sign said visitors should leave natural objects where they found them.
“I took a picture instead.”
“That was smart.”
“Dad wanted to bring it.”
Daniel protested.
“It was a very good shell.”
We laughed.
Nothing was repaired.
But for forty minutes, nothing needed to be.
When I left, Emily ran after me.
“Grandma.”
She handed me another folded paper.
I opened it after reaching the apartment.
It was a drawing.
The four of them stood beside a palm tree.
I stood several inches away in front of a square building.
A dotted line connected us.
Above the line, Emily had written:
GRANDMA STILL LIVES HERE TOO.
I taped it to my refrigerator.
The next week changed something.
Not dramatically.
In small ways.
Daniel texted instead of calling five times.
Rebecca asked if I wanted to pick Emily up after school rather than assuming I would.
When I said no because I had lunch plans, she replied:
Have fun.
No guilt.
No follow-up question.
Jack came to the apartment Saturday and helped me assemble a bookshelf.
He read the instructions aloud with great authority while I corrected him whenever he skipped a page.
When Daniel picked him up, he stood in my doorway.
“This place is nice.”
“It is.”
“Small.”
“It’s temporary.”
He nodded.
“Jack said you’re taking a pottery class.”
“I am.”
“You hate pottery.”
