I looked at her.
“Merry Christmas.”
Then I left.
Cold air hit my face when we stepped outside.
Nora climbed into the back seat without speaking.
Cole buckled himself in and asked, “Do we have food at home?”
“Absolutely.”
“What kind?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Mac and cheese?”
“Christmas mac and cheese.”
He smiled.
“Cookies too?”
“Absolutely.”
Nora stayed quiet.
I watched her in the rearview mirror.
“Baby?”
She looked up.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
She twisted one coat sleeve around her fingers.
“Grandma likes Avery better.”
There it was.
The sentence I had spent years pretending my children were not constructing from evidence.
“Nora—”
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
I pulled into a grocery-store parking lot because I couldn’t continue that conversation safely while driving.
I turned around in my seat.
“It isn’t okay.”
She looked surprised.
“Grandma can love people and still behave unfairly. Adults can make bad choices.”
“Even Grandma?”
“Especially adults.”
Cole leaned forward between the seats.
“So we didn’t do anything?”
“No.”
“Then why did she take our food?”
There was no clean answer a six-year-old deserved to hear.
“Because Grandma made a bad choice.”
He considered that.
“Will she say sorry?”
I looked through the windshield at the lights hanging from the shopping center.
“I don’t know.”
At home, I made the boxed kind of mac and cheese.
Nora dumped extra shredded cheddar into it.
Cole ate two bowls.
We ate cookies on the couch afterward and watched a movie beneath blankets.
By eleven, both children were asleep.
I checked my phone.
Nine messages.
The first few were from Mom.
You embarrassed everyone.
Marissa’s girls were upset because you made them feel guilty for eating.
This behavior is exactly why family events become difficult.
Then:
When you’re done sulking, Mom’s prescriptions need refilling Saturday.
I read that message twice.
She still believed I would return.
Historically, she had reason to believe it.
I had walked away angry before.
I had cried.
I had gone home.
Then I had calmed down and resumed my assigned position.
Strong people did not abandon responsibilities.
That was the trap.
At 11:34, my phone rang.
Nana.
I answered immediately.
“Are you okay?”
Her voice was low.
“They left.”
“Who?”
“Your mother and father went to Marissa’s.”
“Why?”
“She said they were going to finish Christmas there because you ruined the mood.”
My jaw tightened.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did they know you were staying?”
“Of course.”
“Did they leave you dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nana.”
A pause.
Then she said, “I’m ready.”
“For what?”
“To leave.”
I sat upright.
She continued before I could answer.
“I’ve been ready longer than you know.”
I looked toward the hallway where my children were sleeping.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“Elena.”
Her voice sharpened.
“I am eighty-two, not eight.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“Okay.”
“Come tomorrow morning.”
“I can come now.”
“No. Let the children sleep.”
“You’re alone.”
“I have a television and a lock on the door. I’ll survive until breakfast.”
Her voice softened.
“Come early.”
I barely slept.
At seven-thirty Christmas morning, Nora and Cole were awake.
I told them Nana wanted to stay with us for a while.
Cole cheered.
Nora asked, “Forever?”
“We’ll see.”
“Can she have the guest room?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll move my art stuff.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
That was the difference between obligation and love.
By nine, we were in my parents’ driveway.
The house looked absurdly normal.
The inflatable snowman still leaned slightly toward the street. The wreath still hung on the front door. Empty wine bottles sat near the recycling.
Nana was waiting in her bedroom.
One medium suitcase rested near the bed.
Her purse was beside it.
Her cane leaned against the dresser.
The medication organizer I had filled the previous Sunday sat beside a folder of prescription paperwork.
Then Nana pointed to the old blue upholstered chair near the window.
“That comes too.”
I stared at it.
“That chair weighs more than Cole.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“We have chairs.”
“I want that chair.”