“Marriage. A joke. Men like me don’t marry. We don’t get forever,” I say, reaching for my glass.
Ray leans in.
“You don’t need forever. You need the one who’ll stand there while you burn the world down and still call it home.”
20
Mary
Idon’t even make it three steps past the doorway before I’m crushing Grandma in my arms. She feels smaller than I remember, but warm, solid. Smells like coffee and vanilla and the cinnamon she always sprinkles on toast. My throat gets tight, because God, I’ve missed this.
“You’ll crack my ribs, girl,” she laughs, though she doesn’t let go. Her voice is scratchy but strong.
I finally pull back enough to look at her. Her cheeks are pink, her hair pinned up neatly, glasses perched where they belong for once. She looks good—really good. Better than I expected, considering I’ve been bracing myself for the opposite. Nurse Ruth is apparently a miracle worker.
“You look beautiful,” I say, meaning it.
She waves me off. “Flattery from family doesn’t count.”
“It does when it’s true.” I grin, sinking into the couch beside her. Guilt nips at me anyway. I should’ve been here sooner, should’ve come last week, should’ve checked in more than just phone calls. But the way her hand pats mine like she already forgives me? It’s enough to make me want to cry.
We sit for a while, catching up on nothing—her complaining about her neighbor’s dog, me telling her about what happened in the break room.
I can still picture Stephanie’s face turning blotchy red, Janice’s fork clattering against her plate.
“They tried the usual digs,” I say, unable to hide my grin. “Called me a convenient plus-one for the gala invite. But this time… I didn’t fold.”
Grandma raises her brows.
“I told them it’s nice not having to tear people down to feel good about myself. Then I wrapped up my sandwich and walked out like I owned the place.”
Her laughter fills the room, sharp and delighted. “That’s my girl.” She pats my hand, her smile fierce. “About damn time you stopped letting people walk all over you.”
The warmth in my chest spreads like sunlight. For once, I’m not just the one who endures. I’m the one she’s proud of.
Then it tumbles out. “Evan and I broke up.”
Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t tilt her head or ask why, doesn’t poke at the wound. She just gives my hand another squeeze, the kind that says,“You’re still mine, no matter what.”
“I’m proud of you,” she says simply.
Proud. For failing at a relationship. I let out a watery laugh, but it doesn’t feel bad. More like relief.
Conversation drifts, and somehow we land on my father. It’s always like this with us—his ghost sneaks in sooner or later.
“Have you heard from David?” Grandma asks, like she already knows the answer.
I shake my head. “Not in six months.”
The only time he ever reaches out is when he needs something signed. Legal papers. Life insurance updates. Tax documents. That’s my father’s version of staying in touch: forwarding responsibility.
“He sent me an email in March,” I admit. “Wanted me to confirm my social security number so he could update some beneficiary form.”
Grandma’s mouth tightens. “Of course.”
“Not a birthday call. Not a hey-how-are-you. Just paperwork.” I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “Guess I’m only useful when I fill a box on a line.”
She turns toward me, brown eyes steady, stubborn as ever.
