After the accident, I took custody of my granddaughter, Amelia. She was five then. I became not just her grandmother, but the person packing her lunches, signing her school forms, and sitting on the edge of her bed when grief woke her up in the dark.
So when Amelia’s sixth birthday came around, I wanted to give her something bright.
Money was tight. My pension wasn’t enough, so I picked up extra shifts at the grocery store, saved where I could, and told myself no far more often than I ever told her no.
“Do you want a party?” I asked. “Cake? Balloons? Your friends from school?”
She shook her head. “Grandma, I just want one day with you.”
“Just me?”
She smiled. “Just us. Doing something fun.”
So I booked two lounge chairs at a resort pool just outside the city. It was more than I’d normally spend, but I’d saved for it, and I wanted her to have one day that felt easy — a day that didn’t smell like bleach and cash registers and worry.
