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My grandad sees me get emotional and puts his hand over mine.
“Is this too much for you?”
I shake my head, wiping a tear away.
“No.”
“It would be understandable if you didn’t want to look at these albums. Your mom only passed away a few months ago.”
I look up at him with a sad smile. “It’s been almost seven months. But you lost her too. And you lost grandma seven years ago…”
I trail off, thinking that my grandfather probably knows better than I do the people in his life that he has lost. But Grandad just gives me a vague smile.
“I think we’re overdue for a visit to the cemetery,” he says. “It’s been a while since we laid fresh flowers on the graves.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea. Maybe we can go sometime next week?”
“That sounds like a date, Sweet Pea.”
He gets up to refill his coffee, keeping a hand on his lower back. I look down and flip to another page.
My mother stands behind a podium, her mouth open, her finger pointing. She looks youthful and her enthusiasm is obvious with just a glance. An audience sits before her, enraptured and hanging on her every word. Beside the photo, I see a caption scrawled in my grandmother's handwriting. “Adelaide + the Coastal Auto Workers’ Union. 1992.”
Scattered around the page are similar photos of my mother at work. There’s one of her taken at the Sisters of Mercy hospital, where she’s reading to an ailing little girl. In another, she’s picketing in front of a school, facing down a bunch of frowning men in suits. In another, she’s linking arms with others to form a human chain.
I turn the page to find a whole spread dedicated to her biggest accomplishment.
‘Community Center Saved By Working Woman’ the headline from The Island Daily reads. I smile at the article from ten years ago. It features a photo of my mother with her fist in the air, mid-yell, with thirty more people of every race and religion right behind her.
Grandad looks over my shoulder and cracks a grin. “Your mother sure was a firecracker.”
“No doubt about it.” I sigh wistfully. “I wish I had a tiny bit of her stubbornness. She was always happiest when she was the squeaky wheel.”
My grandfather sits down again with a groan.
“Your mother was just plain loud as hell. She was born that way. Came out screaming and never did stop. I loved her to the moon and back, but it did cause some friction here at home now and again.”
I snort. “Mom was never really interested in blending in or going with the flow. She demanded more from all of us.”
“She was proud of you and your sister, though.”
“She had a funny way of showing it sometimes.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs noncommittally. Your mom was a lot of things. But she wasn’t really good at talking about her feelings.”
I screw up my face. That was the understatement of the years—time for a topic change.
“I think I have a real job. One that will help me move out. You can finally have your own space!”
Grandad flinches. “I’m sorry to do this to you girls. I know that you’ve always called this house home. I just….” His mouth works and he looks down at the table. “I got an offer from a buyer a couple of weeks ago. And I think I’m going to say yes. Not because I want to… but because I have to.”
I stare at him, trying to make sense of his words.
“What? Why?”
“Your mom’s funeral wasn’t cheap. I didn’t have a lot of money before that, but that was the final blow.”
“I don’t understand!” I reach across the table and grip his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
