Maybe it was my quiet way of clinging to a single thread of the past when we were a real family. A faint creak from the back of the apartment signaled that Jace, my youngest grandson, was awake.
At fourteen, he was already taller than I was, with lanky limbs and tangled dark hair. His eyes were perpetually hidden behind long bangs and oversized headphones.
I told him good morning and said that waffles would be ready in fifteen minutes. He merely nodded without bothering to remove his headphones and slumped into a kitchen chair with his tablet glowing in front of him.
I had stopped taking his behavior personally a long time ago. At least he did not snap at me the way his older sister, Skyler, sometimes did.
But deep down, I knew Jace saw everything. He understood the unspoken tension better than any of us.
Skyler’s voice sliced through the morning calm as she strode into the kitchen, already dressed and perfectly made up. She asked if I had seen her blue sweater.
At seventeen, she was a beautiful echo of her mother. She had high cheekbones, a sharp nose, and rich chestnut hair.
But her eyes were Phillip’s soft brown, which she had inherited straight from my late husband, George. I told her that I washed it yesterday and that it should be in her closet on the second shelf.
She snapped that she had already looked there, but then she softened as she caught herself. She apologized and explained that she was just late for her project group meeting.
I raised an eyebrow as I flipped a waffle and asked if she could believe it was a Saturday morning. She reminded me about her veterinary classes and the Treating Stray Animals Project.
I nodded as I remembered how determined she had been ever since George gave her that wild animal book for her tenth birthday. I suggested that she check the laundry basket in the bathroom in case I forgot to hang it up.
She dashed off and returned a minute later with the sweater in hand. She thanked me and called me the best before pecking my cheek and grabbing a waffle straight from the pan.
Melinda’s sharp voice made me jump. She never called me Mom and instead used my name, Adelaide, as if we were coworkers or strangers.
She stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips and her slim figure looking immaculate. She managed a self service laundromat and always dressed as if she were heading into an executive board meeting.