For six years, I took care of my grandmother while my sister only appeared when her pension money came in. After Grandma passed, the attorney gave us two matching blue velvet boxes. Mine held a key. My sister opened hers — and all the color drained from her face. At last, karma had arrived.
Grandma sat beside the radiator in her wheelchair, a crocheted blanket resting over her legs.
Her gaze moved slowly between me and the duck calendar hanging above the kitchen sink.
“Are you the young lady who brings the soup?” she asked quietly.
“I’m your granddaughter, Grandma. It’s me.”
She looked at my face for a long time.
“Are you the young lady who brings the soup?”
Then her lips lifted into that tiny, shaky smile she still gave me on her clearer days.
“Of course. My sweet girl.”
I crouched beside her chair and pulled the blanket snug around her knees.
Six years of washing her, feeding her, and pushing her through the park so she could feed the ducks.
Some days, it felt like dementia was taking her from me one small piece at a time.
Then the front door slammed open without warning.
Dementia was taking her from me.
Vanessa swept inside, a luxury purse hanging from her arm.
“Did the pension check come yet?” she asked, without even glancing at Grandma.
“Nice to see you too.”
“Don’t start. I drove forty minutes.”
She dropped her keys on the counter and finally looked toward the wheelchair.
“Hi, Grandma. You look good.”
Grandma stared at her as though she were a stranger knocking to sell something.
I watched my sister’s eyes search the room for the bank envelope.
“It came yesterday,” I said softly. “It’s on the table.”
Vanessa grabbed it and slipped two fingers inside.
“Perfect. I’ve been looking at this resort in Sedona. A full reset weekend. I need it badly. Caregiver burnout is real, you know.”
“You’re not a caregiver, Vanessa.”
“Emotional caregiving is still caregiving,” she said, admiring her nails. “I worry about her all the time.”
I bit my cheek until I tasted blood.
Grandma had soiled her blanket twice that morning.
I had been awake since four.
Vanessa smelled like expensive perfume and rental-car air freshener.
“She had a rough night,” I said. “She asked for Grandpa three times. Maybe sit with her for a bit?”
Vanessa made a face.
“I just got my hair done. And honestly? She won’t remember if I sit with her or not. That’s the one benefit of this whole thing.”
“Vanessa!”
“What? I’m being practical. You should try it instead of acting like a martyr.”
Grandma reached out then, her frail fingers touching my wrist.
For one brief second, her eyes sharpened.
“You stay,” she whispered to me. “You always stay.”
I squeezed her hand.
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