Sunlight bathes the room in an afternoon glow. Then a faint floral scent drifts into the entranceway, and I spot the lilies on the small table below the TV. They’re fresh, brightening the otherwise neutral space. It warms my heart. This is the room of someone deeply loved.
Soft country music plays, and though her lips don’t move, it’s Monica humming along as she knits in front of the window. Even without her singing, I know she has a beautiful voice.
I’ve spent enough time in the field that I was prepared for every scenario, and the scene laid out in front of me is the very best one. So many of our elderly are forgotten when they go into long-term care.
Monica’s room could just as well be my parents’ living room at home if it weren’t for the bed in the corner and the slight smell of antiseptic.
Beside me, Emmett goes completely still.
His eyes move slowly around the room like he’s cataloging every detail all over again after being gone too long.
And suddenly, the weight of me being here settles differently inside my chest.
This isn’t casual to him.
Bringing me here means more than either of us is willing to admit.
So I stay quiet and give Emmett the moment he needs.
Framed photos line the wall. Some I can pick out as a teenage Emmett. Others are the more serious version of the man I know. They hang slightly crooked like they were straightened by hands that aren’t as steady as they used to be.
A fake plant sits on the dresser, and beyond the window a pond glints in the afternoon sun, cattails swaying at the edge.
And then there’sher.
Silver hair pinned back in a loose knot. Cardigan draped over narrow shoulders. One slipper kicked off, socked foot resting against the leg of the chair like she forgot to finish getting dressed. She sits angled toward the window looking out at the view.
The view surprises me most.
Based on what Emmett shared, there wasn’t extra money growing up. A room like this in memory care costs a fortune.
I should’ve known he’d make sure she has the best.
Emmett’s hand tightens around mine, and he swallows thickly.
“Grandma?”
His voice changes when he speaks to her. It's more careful than I’ve ever heard.
She turns toward the sound of his voice, giving me my first real look at her face.
There’s no denying the resemblance. Her high cheekbones hold a rosy tint and her eyes are so blue they rival Emmett’s.
“Well,” she says, after a beat. “You took your time.”
Emmett lets out something between a breath and a laugh. “Sorry about that.”
Instead, her gaze sharpens.
“Your hair is longer.”
He touches the back of his neck without thinking. “Yeah. Guess it’s been a while since I cut it.”
“You look like a hippie.” Her lips twitch. “I like it.”
My chest warms unexpectedly. He doesn’t look like a hippie. His hair is shaggy at best. Always a bit rumpled. Perfect for tangling around my fingers.
Emmett huffs under his breath, half embarrassed, half relieved. “Glad you approve.”
