Sometimes I found myself setting two cups on the breakfast table.
Grief had become less violent.
But it hadn't become smaller.
It had simply changed shape.
One evening, Julian called.
“Margaret, would you like to come to dinner?”
I hesitated.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“What's the occasion?”
“Lucy wants to cook.”
I laughed.
“Should I be afraid?”
“Very.”
I smiled.
“I'll be there.”
Julian and Lucy lived in a modest house near the workshop.
There were mismatched chairs around the kitchen table.
Children's drawings covered the refrigerator.
A large brown dog slept near the fireplace.
Lucy opened the door before I could knock.
“Grandma Margaret!”
My heart stopped.
She froze too.
Her cheeks turned pink.
“Oh.”
I smiled.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
She looked down.
“I didn't mean—”
I reached for her.
“It's all right.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
“You can call me that if you'd like.”
Her face lit up.
Then she hugged me so tightly I nearly lost my balance.
