And on the sixth evening, as the movers set the last box down in a wide, sun-filled Craftsman living room, my phone buzzed.
A text. Not from Todd. Todd had not called once in six days, which told me everything about how much my absence had cost him. He hadn’t lost a mother. He’d lost a housekeeper, and I imagine the inconvenience was considerable.
The text was from Ella. My twelve-year-old granddaughter.
Grandma, are you okay? You left and nobody will tell me where you went. I’m sorry about dinner. I didn’t know they were going to do that. I miss you.
I sat down on a box in my beautiful empty house and read it three times, and I cried for the first time since the dinner, though not from sadness.
Because it turned out one person at that table had seen me after all.
I wrote back: I’m okay, sweetheart. Better than okay. And none of it was ever your fault. I love you, and I’m not far, and I’ll see you very soon.
