My eight grandchildren.
I had bought little stockings for the younger ones, even though some of them were nearly grown.
Grandmothers are foolish that way.
In our minds, the child who once ran through the hallway in socks is always hiding somewhere inside the teenager who now forgets to text back.
I stood in the kitchen wearing my green velvet dress and Richard’s pearl necklace, the one he had given me on our thirtieth anniversary.
I told myself not to look at the driveway again.
Then headlights passed the front window, and I looked anyway.
They kept going.
I called Laura first.
Straight to voicemail.
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