For six years, I looked after my grandmother while my sister appeared only when her pension check showed up. After Grandma passed, the attorney gave each of us an identical blue velvet box. Inside mine, I found a key. My sister opened hers — and immediately turned white. Karma had finally found her.
Grandma sat beside the radiator in her wheelchair, a knitted blanket covering her knees.
Her gaze moved slowly from me to the ducks printed on the calendar above the sink.
“Are you the girl who brings the soup?” she asked softly.
“I’m your granddaughter, Grandma. It’s me.”
She stared at my face for several seconds.
Then her lips lifted into that tiny, shaky smile she still managed on her clearer days.
“Of course you are. My good girl.”
I crouched beside her wheelchair and pulled the blanket snug around her.
Six years of washing her, feeding her, and taking her through the park so she could feed the ducks.
Some days, it felt as if dementia was taking her from me one piece at a time.
The front door flew open without even a knock.
Vanessa strode inside, a designer purse swinging from her arm.
“Is the pension check here yet?” she asked, without so much as looking at Grandma.
“Don’t start with me. I drove forty minutes.”
She dropped her keys on the counter and finally glanced at the wheelchair.
“Hi, Grandma. You look great.”
Grandma looked at her with the blank confusion of someone staring at a stranger at the front door.
I saw my sister’s eyes search the room instead, hunting for the bank envelope.
“It came yesterday,” I said quietly. “It’s on the table.”
Vanessa grabbed it and slipped two fingers inside.
“Perfect. I’ve been eyeing this resort in Sedona. Total reset weekend. I really need it, you know? Caregiver burnout is real.”
“You’re not a caregiver, Vanessa.”
“Emotional caregiving counts,” she said, checking her manicure. “I worry about her constantly.”
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