Grandma sat in her wheelchair near the radiator, a knitted blanket draped across her knees.
Her eyes drifted between me and the ducks on the calendar above the sink.
“Are you the girl who brings the soup?” she asked softly.
“I’m your granddaughter, Grandma. It’s me.”
She studied my face for a long moment.
“Are you the girl who brings the soup?”
Then her mouth curved into that small, trembling smile she still had on her good days.
“Of course you are. My good girl.”
I knelt beside her chair and tucked the blanket tighter.
Six years of bathing her, feeding her, and walking her through the park to feed the ducks.
Some days, it felt like dementia was stealing her away piece by piece.
The front door banged open without a knock
Dementia was stealing her away.
Vanessa swept in, a designer bag swinging from her elbow.
“Is the pension check here yet?” she asked, not even looking at Grandma.
“Hello to you too.”
“Don’t start with me. I drove forty minutes.”
She tossed her keys on the counter and finally glanced toward the wheelchair.
“Is the pension check here yet?”
“Hi, Grandma. You look great.”
Grandma blinked at her like she was a stranger selling something at the door.
I watched my sister’s eyes scan the room for the envelope from the bank instead.
“It came yesterday,” I said quietly. “It’s on the table.”
Vanessa snatched it up and slid two fingers inside.
“Perfect. I’ve been eyeing this resort in Sedona. Total reset weekend. I really need it, you know? Caregiver burnout is real.”
“It’s on the table.”
“You’re not a caregiver, Vanessa.”
“Emotional caregiving counts,” she said, examining her manicure. “I worry about her constantly.”
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron.
Grandma had soiled her blanket twice that morning.
485
I had been up since four.
Vanessa smelled like perfume and rental-car air freshener.
“You’re not a caregiver.”
“She had a hard night,” I said. “She asked for Grandpa three times. Maybe sit with her a while?”
Vanessa wrinkled her nose.
“I just got my hair done. And honestly? She won’t remember whether I sat with her or not. That’s the upside of this whole situation.
Vanessa!”
“What? I’m being realistic. You should try it sometime instead of playing martyr.”
“That’s the upside.”
Grandma reached out then, her thin fingers brushing my wrist.
Her eyes were sharp for a second.
“You stay,” she whispered to me. “You always stay.”
I squeezed her hand.
Across the kitchen, Vanessa was already counting bills into her wallet, lips moving silently.
“I’ll be back next month,” she announced.
“You always stay.”
“She’s your grandmother, not an ATM.”
“And you’re a saint, apparently. Congratulations.” She slung the bag over her shoulder. “Enjoy your soup and diapers life. Some of us are out here actually living.”