I had no idea that afternoon would be the last time my mother and grandmother had a normal conversation.
Mom stopped visiting.
Then she stopped calling.
She didn’t come for Christmas.
Didn’t attend Grandma’s birthday dinner.
And didn’t respond when LaVern tried to explain that Grandma was simply worried about future care expenses.
Dad went along with it.
My father, Carey Larson, was a quiet man who’d worked for years maintaining equipment at a local manufacturing plant.
He didn’t like arguments.
When Mom announced that someone had treated her unfairly, Dad usually accepted her version and avoided discussing it.
My younger sister Erica did the same.
Erica was twenty then, still living at home.
She was six years younger than me and had always been closer to Mom.
When Mom stopped speaking to Grandma, Erica followed her lead.
I didn’t.
I was twenty-six, renting a small place in La Crosse and working for a gutter company owned by a man named Milo Kepler.
Every Saturday, I drove to Holmen.
I mowed Grandma’s lawn.
Cleaned her gutters.
Carried groceries.
And sat on the porch drinking lemonade while she told me what was happening around town.
She was funnier than anyone I’ve ever known.
Her neighbor, Mrs. Thorsgard, would sometimes sit on her own porch and join the conversation without being invited.
The two women argued about everything from church music to which of their late husbands had been the worse dancer.
Grandma always insisted Grandpa Halvor had two left feet.
Mrs. Thorsgard claimed her husband had been worse.
One afternoon, Grandma laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from her cheeks.
I sat between them with my lemonade, thinking there were worse ways to spend a Saturday.
Mom knew I was visiting.
Every few months, she’d make a comment.
“I hear you’re still running errands for her.”
I’d nod.
“Yeah.”
“Must be nice having so much free time.”
I’d look at her.
“She’s your mother.”
Then Mom would change the subject.
For a while, I tried bringing them back together.
I offered to drive Mom over.
Suggested family dinners.
Mentioned Grandma’s birthday.
Mom always refused.
Eventually, Grandma told me to stop asking.
“Fletch, don’t spend your Saturdays carrying everybody else’s arguments.”
I looked at her.
“But she’s your daughter.”
Grandma nodded.
“And you’re her son.”
She reached over and squeezed my hand.
“You don’t have to stop loving one person to keep loving another.”
That sentence became more important than either of us understood.
Three years after selling the farm, Grandma’s health worsened.
She moved into Maple Ridge Care Center.
The house in town was eventually sold to help cover her expenses.
The visits changed.
There was no lawn to mow.
No porch to repair.
No vegetable garden.
But every Saturday, I brought cards and played rummy with her.
Grandma cheated.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to make me wonder whether she was holding an extra card beneath her hand.
When I called her on it, she’d look offended.
“Fletcher Larson, I raised two children. Do you think I need to cheat at cards?”
Then she’d win again.
The staff loved her.
She remembered birthdays and asked about their families.
When someone seemed tired, she’d tell them to sit down for a moment.
Even in a place where other people were responsible for helping her, she kept looking for ways to make their work easier.
Grandma passed away on a Tuesday morning in March.
She was eighty-seven.
The nurse who called said she’d been comfortable and had enjoyed breakfast.
I remember sitting in my truck outside a customer’s house after the call.
The gutter materials were already loaded.
My crew was waiting for me.
But for several minutes, I couldn’t make myself turn the key.
I thought about her kitchen.
The coconut cake.
The little radio.
The way she’d tell me to slow down when I was eating.
Then I called my boss and explained what had happened.
He told me to take whatever time I needed.
LaVern handled the funeral arrangements.
It was held at Our Savior’s Lutheran Church in Holmen.
The church Grandma had attended for decades.
The church where Mom still went every Sunday.
Two days before the service, Mom called.
Her voice was cold.
“Nobody from this house is going Saturday.”
I stood in my apartment holding the phone.
“Mom.”
“Your grandmother made her choice.”
I closed my eyes.
“She’s gone.”
Mom didn’t answer.
I continued.
“Whatever happened between you, she’s still your mother.”
There was a pause.
Then Mom said, “And I’m yours. So think carefully about who you’re choosing.”
I stood very still.
For twenty years, I’d watched Grandma make room for everybody.
Now my mother was asking me to prove my loyalty by staying away from the person who had helped raise me.
I took a breath.
“I’m going to the funeral.”
Mom’s voice changed.
“Then you know where we stand.”
I didn’t argue.
I simply said goodbye.
On Saturday, I wore my only suit.
The church was fuller than I’d expected.
Neighbors.
Former farm customers.
Relatives.
People from the care center.
Mrs. Thorsgard arrived wearing a hat with a little feather.
She told me Grandma would have laughed at it.
I believed her.
LaVern sat beside me in the second pew.
His wife, Evie, held his hand.
The pastor spoke about Grandma’s generosity.
Marit Engstrom played Grandma’s favorite hymn on the piano.
I remember looking toward the front of the church and seeing the empty space where Mom might have sat.
Dad wasn’t there.
Neither was Erica.
When the service ended, LaVern and I helped carry Grandma to her resting place behind the church.
The grass was damp from rain.
A little breeze moved through the trees.
I held one side while LaVern walked beside me.
I didn’t cry until we reached the graveside.
Then I looked toward the small gathering of people who’d come to say goodbye.
And I realized how many lives Grandma had touched simply by showing up when people needed her.
That evening, Mom called.
“I heard you went.”
“I did.”
“I heard you helped carry her.”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then she spoke carefully.