“You don’t care?”
“I care. I just don’t need to convince you.”
My refusal to argue unsettled her more than anger would have.
She left.
Half an hour later, Nana woke.
“Who was at the door?”
“Marissa.”
“Why didn’t she come in?”
“You were sleeping.”
“She could’ve waited.”
“You want me to call her?”
Nana considered it.
“No.”
Then she picked up her crossword.
That was her decision.
I respected it.
Spring became summer.
Nana turned eighty-three.
We celebrated in my backyard with barbecue, corn on the cob, potato salad, and a grocery-store cake that Nora decorated with strawberries because she said the bakery frosting looked “emotionally suspicious.”
Dad came.
Aunt Carol came.
Several of Nana’s friends came.
Mom did not.
Neither did Marissa.
I expected Nana to make their absence the center of the day.
She didn’t.
After cake, she sat in the blue chair we had dragged onto the patio.
Cole squeezed beside her.
Nora brought out a photo album.
At one point, she found a Christmas photograph from two years earlier.
Everyone was around my parents’ dining room.
My children were at the card table.
Nora studied the picture.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Why did we always sit over there?”
I sat beside her.
“Because I didn’t speak up soon enough.”
She frowned.
“Were you scared of Grandma?”
The question landed harder than I expected.
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Because when I was little, I learned that keeping her happy made things easier.”
Nora looked toward Nana.
“Was that good?”
“No.”
She thought for a moment.
Then, with the uncomplicated logic children sometimes use to expose adult nonsense, she said, “You should’ve just sat us at the big table.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“I would’ve moved.”
“I know.”
She went back to the photographs.
For years, I thought protecting my children meant preventing them from witnessing disagreement.
Now I understood that sometimes protection meant letting them see an adult say, calmly, that something was not acceptable.
Sometimes protection meant leaving.
By the next Christmas, dinner was at my house.
Nora helped set the table.
She counted the chairs twice.
“Six.”
“Who are you counting?”
“You, me, Cole, Nana, Grandpa, Aunt Carol.”
“Correct.”
Cole came running through the kitchen.
“Can I sit by Nana?”
“You always sit by Nana.”
“Because I’m her favorite.”
From the living room, Nana shouted, “I heard that.”
Cole shouted back, “Am I wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s your favorite?”
“Whoever brings dessert.”
Cole immediately ran toward the pie.
Dad arrived at five with dinner rolls.
He paused in the foyer.
For a second, I knew he was remembering the previous Christmas.
So was I.
He removed his coat.
“Need help?”
“Set the drinks.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dinner was noisy.
Warm.
Imperfect.
Dad told an embarrassing story about teaching me to drive.
Nora accused him of exaggerating.
Cole ate too fast.
Aunt Carol brought cranberry sauce nobody touched.
Nana had seconds.
Then thirds.
Halfway through the meal, I noticed Cole’s plate was empty.
He glanced toward the turkey.
Before he could ask, Dad reached for the platter.
“More?”
“Yes, please.”
Dad served him.
Nobody told Cole to wait.
Nobody checked whether someone else deserved the food more.
Nobody removed his plate.
Across the table, Nora caught me watching.
She smiled.
I smiled back.
Nana saw both of us.
Her eyes softened.
After dinner, everyone moved toward the living room except Nana and me.
I collected plates.
She remained at the table.
“You’re thinking.”
“You can tell?”
“You get the same crease between your eyebrows you had at twelve.”
I sat across from her.
“I keep thinking about last Christmas.”
“So do I.”
“Do you regret leaving?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“I regret waiting.”
That surprised me.
Nana folded her napkin.
“I kept telling myself your mother needed my money.”
“She did.”
“I kept telling myself she needed help.”
“She probably did.”
“I kept telling myself leaving would create problems.”
“It did.”
She looked at me.
“None of that meant I had to stay.”
I nodded.
Then she said, “You did the same thing.”
“With what?”
“Everything.”
I laughed softly.
“Fair.”
“You thought leaving the table would create trouble.”