I told her the same thing.
She sighed.
— Mom, figure it out yourself. I already have enough problems.
And she hung up.
No questions.
No concern.
Not even a “Are you okay?”
That night, I cried quietly.
Not loud sobs.
Just heavy, long-held tears.
My house had never felt colder.
Close to midnight, I heard a car pull up.
Then three hesitant knocks at the door.
When I opened it, my heart stopped.
— Grandma?
It was Ethan.
My eighteen-year-old grandson.
His eyes were red, his clothes wrinkled.
He held an envelope in his hand.
— I drove all night, he said softly. I brought what I could.
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