My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

“My name is Dolores Vargas. I’m a nurse at Shenandoah Hills Care Center. Your grandmother asked me to call you.”

My hand tightens around the phone.

Grandma Ruth, 84 years old, the only person in my family who ever made me feel like I belonged in it. She’s scheduled for hip replacement surgery in three weeks. D says her health is stable, but at her age, there are risks.

“She’s been asking for you.”

I close my eyes. Two years since I last saw her. I’d snuck into the facility on a Tuesday afternoon when I knew my father wouldn’t be there. We sat together for 40 minutes. She held my hand and told me about her garden.

Then a staff member mentioned my visit to my father’s office, and Harold Lindon made sure the front desk had instructions.

“Thea is not on the approved visitor list.”

“There’s something else,” D says, her voice dropping. “Your father told Ruth that you can visit, but only if you attend your sister’s wedding first. It’s in three weeks.”

Of course. Everything with Harold comes with conditions.

“And Miss Lindon, your grandmother wanted me to tell you one more thing.”

A pause.

“She said they’re planning something at the reception. Something about you. She wanted you to be ready.”