“Oh, well, happy birthday to her! You sound a little glum though. Maybe if you had something to look forward to every day, that would help. Oh! Do you want to try something?” she asked, suddenly eager.

“What is it?”

“At the end of each day tell me a story about one thing that made you sad and one that made you happy.”

“I don’t want to turn you into my therapist.”

She laughed again.

“I’ll do the same for you. It’ll be an experiment in story sharing. And it will help me figure out what my thesis should be about.”

“Really?”

“Maybe! Anyway, do we have a deal?”

I fidgeted.

“I want to. But I don’t want you to feel like you need to talk to me just because . . .” I could not even say grandmother’s condition out loud.

“But I want to talk to you,” she said, in such a straightforward way my cheeks warmed.

“Oh.” I stumbled. “Okay. I guess that’s fine, then.”

“Nice! Alright, I gotta run now. See you later!”

Her voice and the sounds of the gym cut off. I let out a breath, then walked grandfather’s bike home.

They were thrilled when I slammed the bag of ten roast beef sandwiches onto the kitchen table. Grandmother set out the good plates. I stuck a candle in her sandwich. She declared it her best birthday yet.

In the evening, we revived our tradition of getting ice cream after dinner. Armed with grandmother’s coupons, we walked to the local grocery and bought a box of ice cream sandwiches. Grandfather opened it before we were even outside, pulling out one for me and one for him and grandmother to share. We walked along the river that separated Cambridge from Boston, bikers and runners passing us. We were by far the slowest-moving people. I would not have had it any other way. Somebody stopped grandfather in the middle of the sidewalk. It happens often—former students or colleagues. Grandmother and I sat on a bench facing the river, waiting for him.

“There is something I would like to teach you,” she said. She bit into her ice cream sandwich delicately. A kayak rowed past us.

“What is it?” I asked. I figured it would be a recipe, maybe for her beef noodle soup, or if I was lucky, her stir-fried rice cakes.

“About pencils,” she said. “And the pencil company. It’s something I am not proud of. But I would like you to know. Before I forget.”