Every year, Grandma Ruth called the next morning and said, “I saved you pie.”
She was the only one who never forgot.
When she died in October, my family suddenly remembered my number.
Not to comfort me.
To ask about the beach house.
Grandma’s beach house sat on a gray stretch of Maine coastline, with cedar shingles, blue shutters, and a porch facing the water.
Every summer, my relatives treated it like a free resort.
They left sand in the beds, wine stains on the rugs, and grocery receipts for Grandma to pay.
I was the one who fixed the loose railing.
I was the one who drove her to appointments.
I was the one who sat beside her when she was too tired to speak.
At the will reading, my aunt Patricia wore black lace and said, “Ruth would have wanted us to share the house.”
The lawyer adjusted his glasses.
