Mom brushed me off. “You’re busy with your little computer job. Let Savannah handle it. She’s better with people.”
What she didn’t know was that Grandma and I had already been talking every Sunday for two years. While Savannah’s visits were short and practical, Grandma and I spent hours on video calls talking about books, her garden, Grandpa, and life. One day she told me, “You remind me of your grandfather. Quiet, but you see everything.”
I laughed then. I didn’t realize she saw everything too.
My twenty-fourth birthday came with low expectations. Then, to my shock, there was a navy SUV in my parents’ driveway with a huge red bow on it.
“Happy birthday,” Mom said, handing me the keys. “We wanted you to have reliable transportation.”
I was stunned. For the first time in years, I felt seen. Grandma stood near the garage, watching me with a knowing smile. Mom added, almost casually, “Your grandmother wanted you to have it.”
That SUV became more than a car to me. It felt like proof that I mattered.
I drove it for ten months.
Then Savannah’s minivan broke down.