She reached across the table, her hand papery and warm over mine.
“Your mama would’ve been unbearable right now, you know that?” she laughed. “Crying for months. Buying out the whole flower shop.”
“Don’t, Nana. Please.”
“Sweetheart—”
“I just don’t want to talk about it.”
She nodded slowly. Then she got up, slower than she used to, and shuffled to the counter where an old blue cookie tin sat next to the bread box.
I watched her lift the lid, slide something inside, and press it closed like she was tucking a child into bed.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“Recipes,” she said, too quickly. “Old ones from your great-grandmother. I keep meaning to write them out for you.”
“Since when do you hide recipes?”
“Since you started snooping,” she winked.
I let it go. I let everything go those days.
Later, I heard her on the phone in her bedroom, voice low through the thin wall.
“…I know it’s a lot to ask… she won’t say it, but she’s drowning… if there’s any way, any way…”
I pressed my forehead against the wall and closed my eyes.
“Who are you talking to?” I asked when she came out.
“Wrong number, sweetheart. Just a wrong number.”
“Nana.”
“Go to bed, Emily. You’ve got school tomorrow.”
I went to my room and stared at the cap and gown hanging on my closet door. The tassel swung gently in the draft, gold and useless.
In the kitchen, I heard the cookie tin open one more time. Then her voice, barely a whisper, meant for nobody but God and the envelope in her hands.
“Please. Just come home for her. Just once.”
I pulled the blanket over my head and pretended I hadn’t heard a thing.
The next morning, the kitchen smelled like burnt toast and old coffee. I pushed the plate away.
“I’m not going, Nana.”
She set down her cup slowly, as if her wrists hurt. They probably did.
“Emily…”
“There’s no point. Walking across a stage so an empty chair can stare back at me? No thanks.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me. Please.”
She reached across the table and took my hand. Her skin felt like tissue paper.
“You worked four years for that diploma.”
