“She’s awake,” she said. “Sitting up. You’ve got good timing.”
I forced a smile back.
“I usually do.”
The hallway felt longer than usual, too quiet and too still. The linoleum muffled my footsteps. Somewhere down the corridor, someone coughed and the wet, gurgling sound activated my gag reflex for half a second before I fought it back down and kept moving. A TV murmured behind a closed door. Christmas music drifted faintly through the ceiling speakers, syrupy and slow.
I paused outside Granny Irene’s room, my heart hammering in my throat.
Even on the good days, there were no guarantees. A name remembered didn’t mean a memory held. A smile didn’t always mean she knew why she was smiling.
I pressed my palm to the doorframe and exhaled, grounding myself in the cool metal. One beat. Two. Three.
Then, I stepped inside.
She was sitting up, her thin frame propped against the pillows, her white hair combed back, smooth like it used to be. She wore a navy cardigan I’d brought her last month, buttoned wrong at the top, but otherwise neat.
Her eyes met mine the second I crossed the threshold, and they lit up.
“Well, there’s my girl.”
My throat tightened painfully, and I had to fight to swallow the lump of emotion that was trying its best to choke me to death on the spot.
“Hey, Granny Irene,” I whispered, voice already cracking. “I missed you.”
I crossed the room and wrapped her in a careful hug, then sat in the chair beside her bed, the one with the faded cushion and a little rip on the armrest that I kept meaning to stitch up for her when I had time. Granny Irene reached for my hand like she’d been waiting all day for this, and the second our palms touched, something inside me let go.
She gave my fingers a light squeeze, like she knew I was hanging on by a thread, but wouldn’t say it out loud.
“You look tired,” she said, soft but not unkind. “Still working too hard?”
“Always,” I said, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. Her skin felt as thin as rice paper, but it was warm. Still here. Still hers.
“Tell me what you’re doing,” she said. “What kind of mess are you fixing now?”
I laughed under my breath and leaned back.
“I was mediating a divorce case today, a messy one. But my client got what she needed.”
Her eyes twinkled, proud and steady.
“Of course she did. You always were the strong one.” I ducked my head, feeling it hit my soul like sunshine: the praise, the pride, the way it landed in my chest like a balm. She didn’t say I was smart, or pretty, or successful. She said I was strong. She said it like it was the best thing a girl could be.
“Is there a man in the picture?” she asked, tilting her head at me like she already knew the answer.
I shook mine.
“Not yet. No one serious, anyway. I’ve dated a couple of guys over the past few years, but they both turned out to be flakes who disappeared before things could get serious.”
She sniffed and offered me a sly smile.
“Good. Most of ’em are more trouble than they’re worth. You can take care of yourself just fine.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I can.”
Her smile held for a moment longer before her gaze drifted toward the window, going unfocused.
She hummed something tuneless under her breath. Frowned. Then turned back to me with confusion clouding her eyes.
