My husband passed away when our son, Henry, was just seven. I cleaned houses, washed dishes, and worked extra shifts to keep food on our table.
Liam, my grandson, is four and has the softest curls and a sweet giggle that can brighten your darkest day. A week ago, he held up a plastic walkie-talkie with sticky hands and said, “Grandma Grace, this is for you!”
“What’s this for, sweetie?”
“So we can talk even when I’m in my room! Just press this button and say my name!”
I hooked it to my apron. “I love it, little one.”
He hugged my legs tightly. Through the thin wall, I heard Sarah calling him home. We live next door in Pineview Apartments. Same hallway. Same creaky floors.
I helped them buy that place five years ago when Sarah was pregnant with Liam.
“So our boy can grow up near his grandma!” Henry and Sarah had said, their eyes shining with joy.
