the van opened.
My smile disappeared.
Two attendants carefully helped Grandma into a wheelchair.
Seeing her outside hit me harder than I expected.
She looked smaller than she did in her bedroom.
Her shoulders seemed incredibly narrow beneath her cardigan. Her white hair had been carefully brushed back, and someone had added a little color to her cheeks.
Knowing Grandma, she had probably demanded it.
Still, there was something almost unreal about seeing her beneath the open sky.
A woman who had spent nearly two years confined to a bedroom was sitting in my driveway on Sophie’s first birthday.
And strapped to the back of her wheelchair was a small red suitcase.
I noticed it immediately.
It looked ancient.
The leather was scratched and worn. The corners were reinforced with brass, and a tiny padlock secured the front.
It looked completely out of place.
Grandma hadn’t brought an overnight bag.
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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