I bit the inside of my lip. “I saw Mrs. Buzzard making daal.”

She nodded. “I was going to surprise Esha with it.” A small shrug followed by a wry pull of her lips. “No reason to waste the ingredients so I asked Mrs. B to go ahead with the dish.” I didn’t think that was the only reason, which she confirmed. “And it reminded me of her.”

I crossed to hug her because she clearly needed it, and when her arms came around me, I knew I needed it, too.

A few days ago, she had told me we were all in our own process of evolution, or words to that effect. I better understood that now. Growing up, adults always seemed to have the answers, never made mistakes, were on the right path. But that was an illusion. Grandma was as confused and disappointed and frustrated as I was, which was hard to realize—would it ever get easier?—but also a relief in its own way. I wasn’t some massive screwup because I didn’t know everything exactly as I should when I should.

But I did know one thing.

I pulled back from our hug to look at her.

“Grandma,” I said with resolve. “I’m going back to Barrington.”

Her expression brightened. “You decided?”

“I did—hold on.” I frowned. “I don’t think I told you I was thinking about not going back.”

“Your father told me.”

“I don’t think I told him, either.”

“Your mother told him.”

I rolled my eyes in frustration. “Okay, new family pact? We tell each other”—I waved between us—“the important things. Which includes telling me.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her lipstick-free mouth. “Deal.” She sized me up. “What made you change your mind?”

“More like, finally make up my mind. And you’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

I held up the conker by its string.

“That?” Her face was practically a question mark.

“It’s a conker.”

She snort-laughed.

“Grandma!”

“Sorry,” she murmured contritely, then nodded to it. “Explain to me.”

So, I explained to her the rules of the game and how it applied to me making the biggest decision of my life. “You keep swinging, over and over, until you get the desired result,” I said. “Which in this case is a cracked chestnut. But with me, I need to keep swinging, too. Until I get what I want.”

“Do you know what you want?” she asked reasonably.

“Not yet. But I think I’ll figure it out.”

She cupped my cheek. “I’m very proud of you, Finley Brown.”

“You could do it, too,” I said earnestly.

She seemed puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“With Esha? You could try again. If you really want to.”

Her expression closed back up then. “I wish it was that easy.” She moved back to stand behind her desk. “But she doesn’t live here.”

“That didn’t bother you before.”