WE KNEW YOU COULD DO IT, SOPHIE
“Where did you get that hat?”
“Internet.”
“You know how to shop online?”
“I am old, not dead.”
Noah laughed.
Grandma immediately pointed at him through the screen.
“Put your arm around your sister.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He did.
“Closer.”
“Grandma.”
“Closer!”
We obeyed.
Then she looked at me.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“I told you someone would be there.”
“You literally did not.”
“I implied.”
“You manipulated.”
“I prefer orchestrated.”
I shook my head.
“You’re impossible.”
Her smile softened.
“Are you glad he came?”
I looked at Noah.
He was watching me carefully.
I answered:
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“Yes, I am.”
Grandma nodded.
“Good.”
Then:
“Now bring my grandchildren home before my dinner gets cold.”
Noah looked at me.
“Grandchildren?”
“She still thinks we’re seven.”
“She thinks you’re seven.”
“You’re the favorite.”
“I’ve always been the favorite.”
“Delusional.”
And just like that—
we were siblings again.
Not completely.
But enough to start.
WHEN WE GOT HOME, GRANDMA WAS WAITING ON THE PORCH
I was furious.
“You said walking to the mailbox exhausted you!”
“It does.”
“Then why are you outside?”
“I’ve been sitting.”
Noah helped her stand.
For one second, nobody moved.
Grandma looked at him.
He looked at her.
Then Noah bent down and hugged her.
She held him so tightly that his face disappeared against her shoulder.
“You took your time,” she whispered.
His voice cracked.
“I know.”
She pulled back.
“Your mother would slap you.”
“I know.”
“Your father would pretend not to cry.”
“I know.”
Then Grandma kissed his cheek.
“Come inside.”
DINNER WAS MOM’S LASAGNA
Grandma had made it the day before.
Noah looked at the pan.
“You cooked this?”
“I supervised.”
“Who actually cooked it?”
“Our neighbor.”
“Then why did you say you made it?”
“I provided the recipe.”
I laughed.
We ate at the same kitchen table where I had tried to skip graduation that morning.
Three people.
One empty chair that somehow didn’t feel quite as empty.
Noah told us about Westhaven.
His apartment.
His job.
The awful coffee in his office.
Grandma asked whether he was dating anyone.
He nearly choked.
I laughed for the first time in months without immediately thinking:
Mom should be hearing this.
Dad would love this.
Grief was still there.
But for one evening, it wasn’t the loudest person in the room.
LATER, NOAH AND I WENT INTO MY ROOM
He saw the photograph on my dresser.
Mom and Dad.
Their anniversary.
He picked it up.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then Noah said:
“I almost didn’t come.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“I thought you’d tell me to leave.”
“I might have.”
“I know.”
“What changed your mind?”
He sat on the edge of my bed.
“Grandma’s letter.”
Then:
“And something Dad once told me.”
“What?”
“When I left for college.”
Noah smiled sadly.
“I was eighteen and acting tough.”
“Dad said, ‘You can leave home without leaving your family.’”
My eyes filled.
Noah looked toward the photograph.
“I forgot that.”
“So did I.”
He handed the picture back to me.
“I don’t want to forget again.”
“Me either.”
