Returning Home
Moving back into Grandma’s house felt strange.
I unpacked a single suitcase into the guest room and tried convincing myself that I was there because she was family — not because of her promise.
Linda greeted me warmly.
“She doesn’t like sugar in her tea anymore,” she explained. “And she’ll ask whether the doors are locked at least three times every night.”
I smiled weakly. “Thank you.”
Linda studied me for a moment. “You’ll see,” she said quietly. “She’s not the same woman you remember.”
For the next three years, my life became a routine.
Doctor appointments. Medication schedules. Helping her dress. Reading to her at night. Walking with her through the garden when she felt strong enough.
Yet even as I cared for her, Grandma remained emotionally distant.
“Your hair is too long,” she’d say.
Or: “You waste too much money.”
Or: “That dress doesn’t suit you.”
Praise never came.
Affection never came.
Still, I stayed.
