SHE MADE HER NIECE EAT ALONE

Grandma came back on Thursday.

I was at school. Dad found a note slipped under our door when he got home with me.

He read it in the kitchen while I unpacked my homework. Then he placed it face down on the counter.

“Is it from her?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What does it say?”

“She wants me to call her.”

I watched him put the note away. “Will you?”

“Yes. After dinner.”

I didn’t want every meal in our new apartment to turn into a conversation about Grandma. Dad seemed to understand. We made pasta and talked about the class trip instead.

Later, I sat on my bed while he made the call in the living room. He had promised not to speak to her about me where I could hear every word. I still heard his voice through the door.

“I need you to stop coming by,” he said.

There was a pause.

“She needs time. You can write her a letter, and I’ll ask if she wants to read it.”

Another pause.

“No. I’m not going to make her call you.”

I pressed my face into my pillow.

Part of me wanted Grandma to call and say she understood why I was hurt. Another part didn’t want to hear her voice at all.

In my next visit with Mrs. Brooks, I told her both things.

“You can feel both,” she said.

“What if I never want to see her?”

“You can decide what you want now. You can decide again later.”

That sounded easier than choosing forever.

On the field trip, Paige and I sat together on the bus. We went to a history museum, where I saw a table so long that twenty people could have eaten around it.

“Grandma would have found a corner anyway,” Paige murmured.

I laughed before I could stop myself. Paige looked relieved.

Then she grew serious.

“Mom says Grandma has been calling her too.”

“What does she want?”

“She wants us to come home.”

“Do you want to?”

“I miss the garden. I don’t miss being scared of making her mad.”

I understood. I missed the old house’s porch swing. I missed the way Grandma used to sit beside me and show me how to shell peas. Those memories had not disappeared because of the dinners.

That weekend, Celia moved into her rental. Dad and I helped. Paige’s room was small, but it had a window where she could put her plants.

While the adults carried boxes, Paige and I found a letter on the kitchen counter addressed to me. Celia had left it there for Dad to decide whether I wanted it.

Grandma’s handwriting covered the front.

I held it without opening it.

“You don’t have to read it,” Paige said.

“I know.”

I gave it to Dad when he came in. He asked what I wanted him to do.

“Keep it until I’m ready.”

He put it in a folder at home. He told me where the folder was, then left it alone.

A week passed. Grandma stopped coming to our door. I began to feel comfortable leaving my schoolbag in the living room instead of keeping it beside my bed.

One evening, Dad invited Lena, Celia, and Paige to dinner. He cooked too much rice and not enough vegetables. Everyone squeezed around the round table.

Celia asked whether I would pass the water. I did, and she said thank you as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

After they left, I washed plates beside Dad.

“I think I want to read the letter,” I said.

He dried his hands and brought me the folder. He asked if I wanted him to stay. I nodded.

Grandma had written that she missed me. She said the house was quiet. She said she hoped I remembered the good days.

Then she wrote, “I was too strict at dinner, but I only wanted to teach you to be respectful. I hope one day you will understand.”

I read that sentence twice.

“What do you think?” Dad asked.

“I think she still thinks I deserved it.”

Dad didn’t try to change my mind.

I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

“She says she misses me. She didn’t say she was sorry.”

“You noticed that.”

“Did she say sorry to you?”

“She said she was sorry we were upset. I told her I needed her to understand what she did.”

I leaned against his arm. “Maybe she will.”

“Maybe.”

I took the letter to my room and put it beside Mom’s box. I didn’t answer it.

The following Monday, Ms. Reed called Dad. Grandma had come to school and asked to take me home. The office had followed Dad’s instructions and told her no.

Dad thanked Ms. Reed, then came to pick me up himself.

When I got in the car, he told me what happened.

My fingers went cold.

“Did she see me?”

“No. She left before your class came out.”

“Will she come back?”

“I’m going to make sure the school knows she can’t pick you up.”

I looked at him. “She didn’t ask me.”