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“ I s that my beautiful granddaughter?”
Gramps’ voice booms from the living room the second I step through the door of our tiny apartment, warm and full of mischief.
I roll my eyes, but I smile anyway as I set the single bag of groceries on the kitchen counter.
One bag.
That’s all I could afford this time.
I try not to let it get to me, but Jesus, I can’t believe the price of things. The world’s going to hell, and grocery bills are leading the charge.
Good thing I went vegetarian in my teens because the cost of meat? I don’t even want to think about it.
Gramps, on the other hand, still needs his lean proteins, so I make sure to get him a small pack of chicken or fish when I can swing it.
Our apartment is small.
I call it cute and cozy, but really, it’s just small.
Still, I do my best to keep it warm, keep it ours.
A green and gold wreath I made for St. Patrick’s Day hangs on the door, the little ribbons dancing every time we walk past.
A small ceramic pot of fresh herbs sits by the closed kitchen window, drinking in whatever sunlight manages to break through the overcast sky.
Our eat-in kitchen sits off the living room, where Gramps’ old recliner is parked directly in front of his prized possession, a forty-inch TV he won at church bingo five years ago.
The man brags about it like it’s a damn trophy.
From that chair, he can see everything.
Every move I make in the kitchen.
Every sigh I try to swallow down.
Every moment I spend thinking too hard about things I can’t change.
“Hiya, Gramps. Want some tea?” I ask as I start unpacking the groceries.
“That would be lovely, my dear,” he says with a toothless grin that melts me on the spot.
For a man in his seventies, he’s got more wit than most people half his age.
But his body?
Not so much.
The walker is new to him, and I know it kills him, having to depend on something other than himself from time to time to get around.
I see it in his eyes. But the way he moves these days, it’s safest all around.
I remember when his hands were like a surgeon’s, but now they tremble often. He checks them when he thinks I’m not looking.
I just want him to enjoy his golden years.
But that’s not easy when we’re stuck in this tiny apartment, living on scraps of luck and paychecks that barely cover the rent.
“Don’t brood, Arliss dear. It’ll be alright, won’t it?”
His voice is soft this time, watching me closely, reading me too well.
I force a smile. “Of course it will.”
I don’t know if I believe it.
But I need him to.
“I’m making us sandwiches and fresh shortbread for the tea,” I announce, winking at him before turning to get started.
Sundays are usually easier days.
I go to work early because Bob’s closes earlier on Sundays.
But before that, I always make sure Gramps and I have lunch together.
Sometimes we go to mass.
Not today. Today, I have chores to do.
Besides, I like our long lunches.
Every day I am reminded of how precious time really is and how little we have of it with the ones we love. I don’t plan to squander my time.
Not one single minute of it.
I set our plates on the table and the air smells of herbs and butter, sugar and sweetness.
It smells a lot like home.
We sit together, sipping on steaming cups of tea, munching on cucumber and tomato sandwiches slathered with my homemade herbed cream cheese.
Gramps takes a bite, closes his eyes, groans like he just tasted heaven.
“Oh, that was divine, Arliss. Truly. Thank you, my dear.”
I smile, relieved. “I’m glad you like it.”
I know it’s not much.
I know I wish it could be more.
But this— this little moment of comfort, of normalcy —it’s something I can give.
I grab the extra sandwiches and wrap them up, tucking them into the fridge.
“Leaving some for you later, and I’m putting the rest of the tea in the Thermos, okay?”
He watches me for a second, something hesitant in his gaze.
Then, softly, he says, “Do you have to go to that job today?”
I see the regret on his face before he even finishes the question.
I sigh but keep it light.
“You know I do.”
He hates it.
Hates that I have to work so damn much.
Hates that I’ve been trying so hard for something better.
“I just wish there was something else,” he says.
“There isn’t, Gramps. You know I’ve applied.”
We’ve had this conversation a hundred times.
He just wants more for me.
And God, I want more for him.
But for now, this is what we have.
And we make the best of it.