I had made it very clear that I couldn’t lend any money that month, because I still had to put all my money and emotional strength toward the surgery I was about to undergo, and I kept thinking my daughter-in-law would be understanding and stop there. But just a few minutes later, my phone lit up with a message from her, so cold that I was left stunned, unable to believe what had just appeared before my eyes.

A few days later my granddaughter called from his phone.

Not because the adults had orchestrated some symbolic healing, I don’t think, but because children move toward love as naturally as vines move toward light. She wanted to tell me her tooth had finally come out at school during math and there was “so much blood but not scary blood,” and that the Tooth Fairy had brought exactly five dollars because inflation, apparently, had reached even childhood mythology. I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my coffee. Then she asked whether Savannah had lizards and whether I was coming home before summer.

“Yes,” I told her. “I’m coming home.”

“What are we doing first?”

The question startled me.

Not because I lacked an answer, but because I realized she was asking from a place untouched by all the adult ugliness that had made such a mess of the months before. In her mind, my return still meant continuation. Pie dough. Lemon cake. Garden hose. Storybooks. She had not sorted love into factions yet.

“We’ll bake something,” I said. “Maybe pie crust if your brother promises not to eat half the dough.”

“He will,” she said instantly. “Can I still come?”

“Yes,” I said. “You can still come.”