The funeral.
The nine years of silence.
But I knew what would happen.
Mom would respond.
Relatives would take sides.
The conversation would turn into another argument about who was being unkind.
And Grandma’s memory would become something people used to win a disagreement.
I couldn’t stand the thought of that.
Then Paula’s phone buzzed.
She read a comment beneath Mom’s post.
Her eyebrows rose.
“Well, look at this.”
It was from Uncle LaVern.
He rarely posted online.
Most of his page was photographs of cattle, old tractors, and family dogs.
But this time, he’d written directly to Mom.
“Sandra, Fletch didn’t abandon anybody. You told him not to come home because he attended Mom’s funeral. I helped carry her too. Where were you?”
I stared.
Then Paula scrolled.
Mrs. Thorsgard had commented.
Her granddaughter had apparently typed the message for her.
It explained that I’d mowed Grandma’s lawn every Saturday for years and visited her regularly at Maple Ridge.
Then came a comment from Marit Engstrom.
The pastor’s wife.
The woman who’d played piano at Grandma’s funeral.
She wrote that she remembered seeing me in the church that day.
She also mentioned that the coconut cake Mom brought to potlucks was Grandma Pearl’s recipe.
Paula read the comment.
Then took off her glasses.
“Well, that certainly changes the conversation.”
I stared at the screen.
More comments appeared.
People who’d known Grandma.
Former neighbors.
Church members.
A man who remembered seeing me visit the care center.
Nobody needed me to write a speech.
They were telling what they’d seen.
I sat quietly for several minutes.
Then I stood.
“Paula, I’m going home for lunch.”
She nodded.
“Take your time.”
At home, Nina was teaching.
The house was quiet.
I went into the spare bedroom and opened the closet.
On the top shelf sat a white satin-covered book.
Grandma’s funeral guest book.
I brought it to the kitchen table.
For nine years, I hadn’t opened it.
Now I turned to the first page.
There were the names.
Mrs. Thorsgard.
LaVern and Evie.
The pastor.
People from the care center.
Church friends.
Neighbors.
And near the middle, written in blue ink, was mine.
Fletcher Larson.
I stared at it.
Then I took a photograph.
I made sure the page and date were visible.
I didn’t write an explanation.
Didn’t call anyone names.
Didn’t mention the money from the farm.
I simply posted the photograph beneath Mom’s warning.
Then I put the book away.
When I returned to the shop, Erica was standing near Paula’s desk.
She looked pale.
I knew she’d seen the post.
Then she looked toward me.
“Can I take my lunch break early?”
I nodded.
“Of course.”
She swallowed.
“I’d like to go somewhere.”
Paula stood.
“I can drive.”
Erica looked relieved.
They left together.
I went back to work.
There were estimates to review.
Materials to order.
A customer in West Salem needed an answer about a drainage problem.
I tried to concentrate.
But I kept thinking about Erica.
The sticky note she’d tucked into her wallet.
The directions to Grandma’s grave.
Paula and Erica returned about forty minutes later.
Erica’s shoes were wet.
Her eyes were red.
She sat at her desk without speaking.
Then she took out her phone.
A few minutes later, another photograph appeared beneath Mom’s post.
It showed Erica kneeling beside a gray gravestone behind Our Savior’s Lutheran.
A little lilac bush stood nearby.
Beneath the photograph, she’d written:
“Nine years late. I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m here.”
I stared at the screen.
Then I stepped outside.
I walked behind the shop where the trucks were parked.
For several minutes, I stood beside the gutter machine with my hands resting against its metal housing.
I wasn’t angry.
Not exactly.
I was remembering Erica at nine years old, standing in Grandma’s kitchen with flour on her cheeks.
I was remembering Mom telling her not to attend the funeral.
I was remembering how easily we’d become strangers.
Now my sister had gone to Grandma’s grave.
Not because someone ordered her to.
Because she’d finally decided to go.
I took a breath.
Then returned inside.
Erica looked up from her desk.
I nodded toward her phone.
“Grandma would’ve liked seeing you.”
Her eyes filled.
She looked down.
Then whispered, “I wish I’d gone sooner.”
I swallowed.
“Me too.”
For the first time in nine years, we understood each other without needing to argue about Mom.
Then the telephone rang.
Paula answered.
“Bluff Country Gutters.”
She listened.
Then smiled.
“Yes, ma’am. We do free estimates.”
She glanced toward me.
“How did you hear about us?”
There was a pause.
Then Paula’s expression changed.
She wrote something on her yellow pad.
After the call, she looked at me.
“First one.”
I frowned.
“First what?”
“New customer from your mother’s post.”