He still interrupted sometimes. He still asked for things. Once, when Owen told him to put his game away, he snapped that the rule was stupid.
Owen held out his hand and waited for the device.
Caleb gave it to him, sulking.
Nobody laughed. Nobody asked me to decide whether it mattered.
For his eleventh birthday, they invited me to their apartment for dinner. I brought a book about building simple machines and a small tool kit his parents had approved. The cake was uneven, made in a pan Paige already owned.
Before we ate, Caleb pulled a chair out from the table.
“This one’s yours, Grandma.”
It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a payment. It was a chair, offered without a joke attached, and I sat down.
When the food came around, Owen asked whether I wanted more potatoes. Paige reminded Caleb to pass the bowl instead of reaching across me. The conversation moved on to work and school and the weather expected that weekend.
I touched the edge of my napkin and let myself enjoy an ordinary dinner.
Later, at home, I opened my laptop to check my own bills. The mortgage company’s name was gone from the list of scheduled payments. So were the school charges and the insurance transfers.
In their place were the expenses of the life I was living: utilities, groceries, the hearing aids I could finally hear clearly through, and a small amount set aside for another trip.
Owen called while I was closing the screen.
“Did you get home okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Caleb liked the book.”
We talked for a few minutes. Then he said good night, and I did, too.
I put the laptop away, washed my cup, and turned off the kitchen light.
