THE NIGHT MY GRANDDAUGHTER SPAT IN MY DINNER

The table was empty.

For a moment, I could see that night as clearly as if it were happening again.

Lily leaning forward.

Sarah laughing.

Greg smirking.

My untouched roast.

The wet mark in the potatoes.

My napkin folded beside my plate.

Then the memory changed.

Christmas.

Lily carrying my plate.

Sarah laughing with me instead of at me.

A family still imperfect.

Still difficult.

Still mine.

I walked to the staircase.

Robert smiled at me from his photograph.

“I kept them together,” I whispered.

Then I shook my head.

“No.”

I smiled.

“We learned how to stay together without holding each other hostage.”

The house did not answer.

It didn’t need to.

I turned off the downstairs lights and walked toward my bedroom.

My phone buzzed one last time.

Sarah.

Dinner Sunday? Our place.

A second message followed.

And before you ask, we’re buying the groceries.

I smiled.

Then I typed:

I’ll bring dessert.

Three dots appeared.

You don’t have to.

I looked around my quiet house.

At my walls.

My photographs.

My staircase.

My life.

Then I answered:

I know. I want to.

And that, finally, was the whole difference.