“You keep trying. Over and over and over, until . . .” My words trailed off as I started to feel something simple and honest and true go from tickling the back of my mind to the forefront with such ease it felt as if it had been there all along. And maybe it had. Maybe I simply needed to come upon it in my own way. My answer. Clear and straightforward. “. . . until it breaks open.”

“And it’s called a conker?”

“Yeah. But with a ‘k,’ not ‘qu.’ Though, conquer is part of it. Conquer the other person’s chestnut, conquer your fears of not getting it right the first time or the second or the ninth. You keep swinging and swinging and swinging until eventually, that nut breaks.” I put the conker in my pocket as my chest started to feel like it was filling with sunshine and certainty. “Brody, I have to go.”

“Okay, Fin,” he said, hands jammed deeper in his coat pockets. “I just wanted to make sure you and me were, you know, cool.”

“Yeah. We’re cool. Thanks.” I stood up on my toes and quickly kissed his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Brody Tuck. And thanks for making sure we’re good.”

I hurried out of the library, in search of Mom and Dad. I wanted to talk with them, share what I was feeling. But then I remembered they may be in the middle of their own revelation and changed direction, winding up by Grandma Jo’s office.

The door was half open.

Grandma Jo stood beside her desk, reading glasses on, reviewing papers. The window behind her desk brought in the light of the snowy outdoors and I got a clearer look at how drawn she seemed. She’d dressed nicely for the day, though I knew she would change into her Christmas party outfit later.

But what stood out was that she had forgotten to apply her lipstick, which never happened. Lipstick was like my grandmother’s one constant. Typically dark red, though not too dark, with pencil lining that must be blended and never allowed to be noticed, with a hint of gloss to give it a shine that didn’t veer into gloopy. For her to forget to apply was unheard of.

I tapped on her door. At the noise, she looked over her glasses at me.

“Yes?”

“Hi.” I stepped inside. “I thought I’d check in, see how you’re doing? With, you know, everything.”

“Fine. Busy,” she said in a clipped tone.

But then Grandma Jo seemed to hear herself and stopped. She set the papers down then leaned against her desk and took off her reading glasses. She gazed at me in a way she hadn’t before, her guard lowered.

I asked again, gentler, “How are you, Grandma?”

She swallowed and her eyes took on an unfocused quality. “I’m sad,” she admitted, in a voice echoing the emotion. “And angry at myself.”