She’d told me Eric knew.
She’d told Eric I’d agreed.
Why?
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“I’ll call her.”
“Good.”
But Vanessa didn’t answer him either.
That night, the children settled in easily enough. They had stayed with me before, although never like this.
Saturday morning, I made pancakes.
Jenny was coloring at the table. Owen was carefully drowning his pancakes in syrup while Brooks barely touched his.
Then Brooks looked at me.
“Grandma, are we going to live with you now?”
I nearly dropped the spatula.
“What makes you think that?”
He glanced toward his brother and sister.
“Mom told us to pack our important stuff.”
I turned off the stove.
“What important stuff?”
He pointed toward the hallway.
Their bags suddenly looked different.
I opened the suitcase.
Inside were clothes, but far more than anyone needed for two nights.
There were schoolbooks. Jenny’s medication. Owen’s inhaler. A folder with insurance information.
Then I found an envelope containing all three children’s birth certificates.
Brooks had packed his baseball trophy between two sweaters.
I stared at it.
That trophy sat on the shelf beside his bed at home. He had carried it to my house because his mother had told him to bring what mattered.
“Brooks,” I said carefully, “what exactly did your mom tell you?”
“She said we might be staying somewhere else for a while.”
“Where?”
He shrugged.
“I asked if we’d come back home, and she said she didn’t know yet.”
A knot formed in my stomach.
“Did she say you’d live here?”
“No. She said if things didn’t work out, you’d make sure we were okay.”
That was how an eight-year-old had arrived at the idea that he might be moving in with me.
I called Vanessa.
