Mom is sitting on the floor in the living room with papers spread around her like a fan. It’s another Friday night, and Mema and Grandpa have gone to church for a potluck. I’m at the dining room table staring at one single blank sheet of paper. I have to give a speech on Monday, and according to Mrs. Roman, it has to be a demonstration speech where I teach the class something. Other than wheelies in the chair and how to whistle with two fingers, I’m out of ideas.

“You want tea?” I yell over my shoulder.

“Yes, please.” And then after a minute, “But, honey, you don’t have to scream. This house isn’t big enough for that.”

I bring us two mugs of chamomile and the Thin Mints from Mema’s Girl Scout cookie stash in the freezer.

“So, what are you doing?” I say, leaning over the papers. At first I think they’re essays she’s grading, because she’s been subbing a lot for the teacher who just had a baby. But I didn’t think they let subs grade papers.

“Careful there!”

She wipes crumbs off the top sheet and then starts to turn it over, but I catch a few words at the top and grab it. “Autumn Leaves Assisted Living.” My throat closes up.

“What is this?”

She sets down her tea and sweeps her hand over the whole pile, gathering it up like a stack of cards.

“This, Ellie, is just in case. I’ve been talking with Dr. Hirschman and trying to come up with a plan for what to do when we can’t take care of Grandpa anymore.”

“No.” I roll back and hot tea from my mug sloshes over on my legs. “That’s why we’re here, Mom. To take care of him so he doesn’t have to go anywhere else. You heard Mema. We are family. This is what we do.”

Mom’s the fixer. But putting Grandpa in a home isn’t a fix—it’s giving up. She’s breaking all the rules. I’ve never wanted to get up and run out of the room more in my life.

“Ellie, listen. I know we’re family. But I also know what happens when you leave it too long. It’s not good for anyone.” She rubs at her forehead. “You think I want to put my father anywhere?”

She’s acting like she’s trying to talk it through with me, but she’s not really. She’s talking at me. She thinks because I’m twelve, I won’t understand.

“So that’s it, then? He does a few things that inconvenience people and we ship him off?” I tip my chair back, like a horse rearing up, and then let it thump down hard. It’s the closest thing I can do to a stomp and it’s not nearly good enough.