Deloris sat with that for a long time, staring down at the papers in front of her.
“I’ll think about it,” she finally said.
The words came out quiet, almost defeated, nothing like the confident. Dismissive tone I’d grown so accustomed to over eleven years of Sunday visits. Caleb reached under the table and squeezed my hand once, a small. Silent acknowledgment that we’d both said everything that needed saying that evening.
She left that night without another word, without her usual dramatic exit. Without the performance of hurt feelings she’d perfected over eleven years.
I watched her car pull out of the driveway from the front window. Headlights sweeping briefly across our lawn before disappearing down the street. Caleb stood beside me, arm around my shoulders. Both of us quiet for a long time after the sound of her engine faded completely. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen her leave without the last word,” he finally said. “Me too,” I said.
The following weeks were quiet in a way our house hadn’t been in years.
No Sunday visits. No uninvited lunches. No coffee rings appearing on counters I hadn’t touched all day.
I noticed how much extra time I suddenly had. Whole afternoons no longer spent scrubbing surfaces that shouldn’t have needed scrubbing in the first place. Milo asked, once, why Grandma hadn’t come by in so long. “She’s thinking some things through,” I told him. Which felt like the truest simple answer I could give an eight-year-old.
