Nancy laughed once through a sudden rush of tears.
“I’d forgotten which place it was.”
Brian reached into his pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper.
“Tyler made this before that dinner. The one that went wrong.”
It was a child’s drawing of the four of them at a table, with Nancy beside a large cake. Along the bottom, carefully printed, were the words: GRANDMA SHOULD COME MORE.
“He wanted to bring you somewhere from the photograph,” Brian said. “I wanted that too. I should have told you myself.”
Tyler looked worried.
“We didn’t give it to you because everybody got upset.”
Nancy held the drawing against her chest.
She had carried the memory of that dinner as proof that she had arrived unwanted.
Now she learned that before the plate moved, before the bread landed, a child had pictured her there with a place of her own.
She reached for Tyler’s hand.
“I’m very glad you kept it.”
Their meals arrived.
The youngest child pointed toward Nancy’s plate.
“Can I try a bite?”
“Ask after Grandma has had some,” Brian said.
Nancy smiled.
“I’d be happy to share.”
She took her first bite while everyone began eating. Nobody hurried her. Nobody watched to see whether she would surrender what was hers.
Later, when the waitress asked about dessert, Nancy glanced at the photograph resting beside her glass.
“Four forks,” she said. “And whatever pie is good today.”
Sunlight lay across the table. Brian moved the water pitcher within her reach, then listened while she told the children how their grandfather had once driven twenty miles back to a restaurant for a hat that was sitting on his own head.
Tyler laughed so hard he had to put down his fork.
Nancy laughed with him.
When they left, she carried the photograph and drawing together. At home, she placed them beside the lamp, where she would see them each evening.
Then she opened the curtains, put the kettle on, and called a friend to tell her about lunch.
