would figure it out.
Three days later came the call I hadn’t expected.
Grandma Ruth.
Seventy-two.
Sharp as a blade wrapped in a quilt.
She lived twenty minutes away in assisted living—not because she couldn’t care for herself, but because her knees had finally lost their argument with the stairs.
She called Sunday morning while I was still in bed.
Carol had told her everything.
No greeting.
No small talk.
That was Ruth.
I asked if she was angry with me.
The question made me sound twelve years old again.
