I didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, I pulled out one of Mama’s old notebooks. She used to write down grocery lists and poems and bits of recipes that only made sense to her.
Inside, I found a folded index card with her handwriting. Sharp, no-nonsense loops. It said:
“You know who you are by the way you do the small things.”
I ran my finger over the ink. God, I missed her.
The next weekend, Rebecca came by with one of her sons — Caleb, the middle one. The quiet one with the long lashes.
She brought lemon bars from Whole Foods and a laminated brochure about Maplewood.
I didn’t even touch the lemon bars.
But Caleb did something different.
He walked straight to the oven. “Grandma, why do you fold the towel like that every night?”
It stopped me.
No one had ever asked.
So I told him. I told him about Mama. About the meatloaf, the hot sink, the sound of dishes clinking and girls giggling and rules you didn’t argue with. I told him about the way she folded it — not once, not twice, but with a kind of grace you don’t learn in school.
He listened, really listened, the way only children or very old people do.
Rebecca just stared at her phone.
That night, I heard Caleb ask her in the driveway, “Mom, why don’t we do stuff like that at home?”
She didn’t answer.
But maybe the question stayed with her.
The next few weeks were a strange mix of stillness and storm.
Rebecca backed off, for now. I think Caleb’s question shook her a bit.
I kept doing my routine. Dishes. Towel. Light off.
Then one Tuesday, around dinnertime, I saw something through the kitchen window that made me sit down hard.
It was Rebecca.
She was walking up the path with her three kids — all of them — and a brown paper bag of groceries.
And a dish towel.
