My mother often told me, “Don’t sit on Grandpa’s lap.” I never understood why. One day, I didn’t listen to her and sat down anyway. Grandpa smiled, leaned close to my ear, and whispered, “Can you come sleep beside me tonight?”

Whenever I visited, he’d open the refrigerator and say,

“Let’s see if the chocolate fairy came last night.”

And somehow, miraculously, she always had.

But something had changed during the months before that Sunday.

Grandpa had become thinner.

He walked more slowly.

Sometimes he’d stop halfway across the room and put his hand against the wall.

Whenever I noticed, he’d smile.

“Old batteries,” he’d tell me.

I didn’t understand what that meant.

My mother did.

She always watched him.

Not obviously.

She thought I didn’t notice.

But I did.

Whenever Grandpa laughed, Mom smiled.

Whenever he coughed, Mom stopped smiling.

Whenever he stood up too quickly, Mom’s eyes followed him.

And whenever I ran toward him, she’d say the same thing.

“Lily, careful.”

Once, I had thrown myself into Grandpa’s arms.

Mom had practically sprinted across the room.

“Don’t do that!”

I remember staring at her.

“Why?”

“Because Grandpa isn’t as young as he used to be.”

That explanation sounded reasonable.

Except Mom never sounded reasonable when she said it.

She sounded frightened.

Then there was the lap rule.

“Don’t sit on Grandpa’s lap.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s older.”

“Grandpa sits in a chair.”

“Exactly.”

“Then why can’t I sit there too?”