“So is being twenty-two.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
“I didn’t raise you to disappear into taking care of me.”
“You raised me not to leave people.”
He looked away first.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, very softly, “That isn’t the same thing as never being allowed to go.”
I didn’t understand how important that distinction would become.
During his final month, people began visiting.
Nora Ellis, his attorney, came twice.
A woman named Marianne Vale came on a Tuesday afternoon while I was making soup.
She was in her sixties, with silver hair clipped behind one ear and a brown leather satchel worn pale at the corners.
Grandpa introduced her as someone helping with a family matter.
We spoke in the kitchen.
She asked about school, work, the household bills.
At the time, I assumed she was checking whether we needed assistance.
