Child Protective Services came out.
They inspected my house. They talked to Jack’s school.
She cried on speakerphone so hard I could hear her breath catching.
“I thought it would be three days,” she kept saying. “Then Dad got worse.
Then Mom fell again. I kept thinking, ‘Tomorrow I’ll go back.’ I know I messed up. I just didn’t know what else to do.”
In the end, they agreed: Jack could stay with me, as long as his mom stayed in contact and didn’t vanish again.
He moved into my guest room with his backpack, his game console, and the skateboard.
He stood in the doorway, awkward.
“So, um… what do I call you?” he asked.
“Helen? Or…”
He stared at his shoes, then looked up.
“Is… Grandma Helen weird?” he asked.
I felt something unclench inside me.
“It’s perfect,” I said. “I’d like that very much.”
We settled into a routine.
I made breakfast.
He pretended to hate oatmeal and then scraped the bowl.
He came home, flung his backpack on a chair, and raided my fridge.
We did homework at the table.
“Did you have this kind of math?” he groaned once.
“No,” I said. “We just traded goats.”
He nearly choked laughing.
We watched movies.
He showed me superheroes. I showed him black-and-white films where people actually talked.
I taught him pie crust. He showed me how to use his tablet without breaking it.
The house stopped sounding like a tomb.
A few weeks later, his mom came back in person.
She knocked on my door, eyes swollen.
Jack flew at her.
“You can’t disappear like that again,” he said into her shoulder.
“I know,” she cried.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I thought I was doing what I had to. I was wrong.”
We sat at the table and talked.
About her parents. About money. About being alone with too many people depending on you.
We didn’t excuse what she’d done.
But I understood how desperation can warp judgment.
After that, things weren’t perfect, but they were… better.
Sometimes Jack slept at her place, sometimes at mine. Most afternoons he ended up at my table, anyway, complaining about homework and asking what was for dinner.
His mom started saying, “Go ask Grandma Helen,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Years passed.
He grew taller. His hat didn’t look as silly.
His voice dropped. He started carrying my groceries and scolding me for climbing stools.
“Sit down, Grandma,” he’d say. “You’re gonna break yourself.”
I’d swat his arm and sit down.
Meanwhile, my body gave me new complaints.
Then came the word: cancer.
“At your age,” the doctor said gently, “we focus on comfort, not cure.”
I went home, sat at my old desk, and pulled out my will.
It still had my children’s names on it.
Children who hadn’t walked through my door in years.
I stared at it. Continue reading…
