“I’m not ready to do this,” Mom says. “Can we just wait a little while longer? Maybe”—Mom’s voice cracks—“he’ll get settled in once he’s done being angry with me. Maybe we’ll all find a good rhythm and things will balance out?”

Mama puts her arm around Mom’s shoulder and pulls her closer, whispering, “Maybe.”

Mom leans into her, pushing the blanket of brochures to the floor as she lies down. I’ve never seen her like this. Usually Mom is the one who knows what to do, always the one to comfort everyone else, never letting the murky feelings get to her—at least, that’s what I thought, anyway. There’s no way I’m going to tell them about Gramps now, for his sake and for theirs. It would just cause more sadness.

I go downstairs, expecting to find Gramps having his usual midnight snack. He’s not there. So I walk down the hall to his room. Not there either. The bed is made and he has some books lined up on the desk, along with his pad of sketch paper and drawing pencils. I shouldn’t snoop, I know. But I take a few steps into the bedroom to see what Gramps is working on. He has a small picture of my grandmother in a frame that is propped up against the wall. In it, her mouth is just a little bit blurred—she must’ve been in the middle of saying something. In her lap sits a small, scruffy-looking dog.

I look down at the paper and see that he had been sketching her face, except he’s making it life-sized. And unlike a lot of Gramps’s drawings that are cartoony, this one is so realistic I feel like her face might come to life right out of the paper. Her eyes are the part that is most complete. The rest of her face is still swashes and light marks of an outline.

Gramps is the one who taught me to start with the eyes, but when I look into hers, they feel so real and warm, and I wonder if Gramps is focusing on them not just because that’s the way he draws. I compare the drawing with the photo. There’s something about the drawing that feels more real—like I can sense her personality, can even imagine the sound of her voice.

I carefully pick up the picture frame and look closer at my grandmother’s face. She’s so happy, surrounded by flowers all around her and the dog; she even holds a stem between her fingers. And she’s young too—probably younger than my mom is now. I can see why Gramps always says that Mom reminds him of her. I never saw it before now, but in this picture, Mom has Grandma’s exact smile.

Although, I haven’t seen Mom laugh like this in a long time.