She'd told me she loved me, even if she hadn't meant it the way I did.
And now she was suggesting I might have mistaken kindness for romance.
But she'd also admitted she could be wrong.
I thought about how lonely I'd been before meeting her.
How much it had meant when she remembered the smallest details of my life.
Maybe she was right about some of it.
Maybe she wasn't.
I still loved her.
And I didn't need to decide what kind of love it was for it to have been real.
The following Sunday, Grandma asked me to bring the blue book.
We sat beside her living room window.
"Read to me," she said.
"You're perfectly capable of reading."
"I know. But I like listening to you."
I opened it.
Halfway through the first chapter, Grandma interrupted.
"Ellie hated that character."
"Why?"
"She thought he was selfish. I thought he was lonely."
