I dive into telling him about some of the coolest chair bags I’ve made lately, especially the Avengers one. I almost mention AK_SalmonGranny’s cusswords-bag order but realize I probably shouldn’t.

“I’m glad that sewing machine I gave your mother is getting use,” Nonny says, slicing the sweet potato pie like it deserves punishment. “Have you tried the patterns I sent?”

Dad rescues me. “I’m not sure they’re quite Emmie’s style,” he says, which is pretty tactful. Those dress patterns all looked straight out of some dinosaur decade.

“It wouldn’t hurt for her to try a bit harder, Alan,” she says.

Dad’s face goes stony. “Emmie tries plenty.” He stabs up his last bite of salad so hard his fork grinds against the bowl. “She’s well on her way to earning herself some fancy new wheels.”

Nonny can say more with a raised eyebrow than anyone else. “Priorities, Alan. A girl should look her best under the best of circumstances. In Emelyn’s case, that’s doubly important.”

I know this conversation. Mom and Nonny used to squabble about it—Nonny arguing that a girl with a wheelchair should work extra hard on looking good in order to … what? Make the wheelchair turn invisible? Make strangers like me more? Mom, of course, biting back that I could wear a feed sack if I wanted to.

Someone squeezes my hand under the table. I glance at Dad, but his hands are shredding his napkin. It’s Pop-Pop.

Dad’s just about keeping it together. “Would you look at the time! Dinner was delicious, as always.” He looks at me. “Emmie?”

I gulp down my last bite of biscuit and push away from the table so fast I almost pop an accidental wheelie. “Ready.”

“You haven’t had dessert—” Nonny protests, but Dad and I are out of there.

“Well, we’ve had worse,” Dad says, when we’re halfway home.

“If you say so.”

“What do we always say? Shake it off…”

“And roll over it,” I finish. It isn’t Dad’s fault Nonny does that. I know he’d like to tell her off as much as I sometimes want to. It’s not that he doesn’t love Nonny—we both do. I also sometimes feel like slipping Ex-Lax into her iced tea. Family is complicated.

It’s only six forty-five when we get home. Dad has to study, so he spreads his books and manuals over the coffee table. It’s still light out, and I’m dying to get back on that ramp and practice, but that’s going to have to wait. I’m not sure exactly how serious Dad was about me staying off the ramp entirely, but right after a fun-filled dinner with Nonny is not the time to ask for clarification. The armrest should probably wait, too.

I tell him happy studying and head to my room to work on bags. I only have one new one—a medium-size armrest bag for a teenage guy down in Florida—and I message with Ale and Tina while I whip it up.

You going to make the AK lady one? Tina messages me.