“Of course she loves me, she’s my grandmother. She doesn’t have a choice.”

“That’s not how she feels about it,” Mom says.

“It’s just . . .” I don’t know how to explain what I’m thinking without being rude. “It’s kind of weird. . . .”

“What’s weird? I hate to break it to you, Ben, but what we’re going through, a lot of people go through. What’s happening to you . . . is not . . .”

“That’s not what I mean.” But I can’t say what I do mean, which is that Granma’s swollen hand makes me feel weird, and that I don’t always like eating her food, because . . . her house doesn’t always seem that clean to me. She doesn’t have a dishwasher and so we have to wash all the dishes ourselves, and Granma usually does it, and this isn’t the kind of thing she cares about very much. Sometimes when I eat breakfast I notice bits of dried cereal on the cereal bowl. That kind of thing. Back in New York, Maria kept everything spotless. But that’s not really what matters, that’s not what I want to talk about. Finally I say, “I miss you. I miss it . . . when it was just you and me back in New York.”

“It’s still you and me.” I can tell she’s upset: she’s sitting up in bed, and I can see her pulling her knees against her chest and holding them.

“No it’s not, it’s you and Granma. You don’t even make dinner anymore. I miss your food.”

“Forgive me, Ben. You sound a little spoiled right now.” Her voice is colder; she’s talking the way I sometimes hear her talk with her girlfriends, when she disagrees with them. “Don’t you like Granma’s cooking?”

“Of course I do. Just forget about it. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve got a lot going on right now, too. I need all the help I can get.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m just a spoiled kid.”

“You’re not a spoiled kid, you’re my beautiful . . .”

“I know you love me, Mom. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

I think maybe the conversation is finished, so I roll over in bed, with my back to her; it’s easier for me to sleep that way, facing the wall. A few minutes go by, I can hear her breathing. But then she asks, “Do you miss Dad?”

I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I can’t tell what she wants me to say. Also, I want to tell the truth. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay to miss him.”

“Of course it’s okay.”

Now I guess I sound a little bit mad, but I don’t know how to say anything so it sounds normal. We don’t speak for a while; I can’t get back to sleep. It feels weird, lying there like that—I don’t think Mom’s asleep either, and eventually I turn around again. “Do you miss Dad?” I ask her, and she gets out of her bed and comes into mine. She creeps under the blanket.