“I was seven.”
“And stubborn,” Grandma added.
Everyone laughed, and for a while, I felt that rare, soft warmth that only happens when nobody is in a hurry. No one was checking the time. No one was arguing. Even my phone stayed facedown beside me, quiet for once.
Tyler had texted earlier that he would be late because of work. He was 28, two years older than me, and he worked long hours as a technician at a private security company.
He had apologized three times for missing dinner, which was very Tyler. He was thoughtful in a way that made people trust him quickly.
My mother adored him.
My grandma once told me he had “old-fashioned eyes,” whatever that meant.
At the time, I thought it was sweet.
Grandma’s high school album was the last one we opened.
The cover was dark green and cracked at the corners. Her name was written on the inside in careful blue ink. The pages smelled faintly of paper, perfume, and time.
“Oh, look at you,” I said when I saw a photo of her standing beside a bicycle, her hair curled neatly around her face.
Grandma chuckled.
“I thought I was very grown.”
“You looked like a movie star,” I told her.
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