I can’t forget how Mom and Dad turned away from me. But I also can’t forget all that happened before they did. Each memory—good and bad—is a part of me. Each feeling stays with me, just as clear as the day it happened.

Later that evening I knock on Gram’s door. She’s getting ready for bed, her hair pinned to her head in tight curls. I’m always fascinated with how different she looks without her hair done and with no makeup on. Even her long blue robe transforms her into a more relaxed version of herself.

“Night, Gram.”

She holds out her arms and kisses both of my cheeks. “Good night, my sweet girl. Is everything all right? You seem worried. The lasagna was a huge success.”

Gram sees all. Even when she’s not herself, she can sense when I’m struggling. I make an effort to smile. “I am a little worried about you,” I admit. “You get kind of forgetful sometimes, and it… I don’t know. I wanted Mom and Dad to think you made the lasagna all on your own because I think they’re worried too.”

“Oh, Lulu. It’s not your job to worry about me. What can I do to help you? Do you still want my stories?” She takes my hand and squeezes my fingers.

I nod, fighting the prickle of tears behind my eyes. Love swells against my chest, each breath drawing out the stinging pain of it.

“Then have them you shall. Of course, you must keep in mind that they might bore you. I’m no Judy Blume.”

I giggle. “I know that. I don’t need it to be fancy.”

Gram rubs her hands together. “Where shall I start, then?” She glances over at the chest in the corner.

I hold my breath. What if she decides to look for the book? How will I tell her what I’ve done?

She looks back in my direction and pats the edge of her bed. “We’ll keep this first story short since it’s your bedtime.”

I wiggle against the headboard, adjusting the pillows until I’m comfortable. The scent of lavender and vanilla with a hint of hair spray floats in the air around me.

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she asks, “Did I ever tell you about my friend Jacob?” She says this in a rush of words, like if she doesn’t get it out fast, it might not come out at all.

“No,” I say.

“We were best friends.” One side of her mouth tilts up in a smile that’s not quite happy or sad.