After that day, she didn't call.
Four months passed. Not a single call, not a single question about her granddaughter. Not even a short message. I reassured myself that she was just offended. Or stubborn. Or that she was deliberately keeping her distance. I kept telling myself that I didn't need her. I was now a mother too. I was busy. And I thought I was doing fine.
And yet the silence ate away at me from within.
One day, without planning it, I found myself driving to her house.
The house at the end of the block looked the same as always. I entered with the spare key I had once insisted on keeping "just in case."
Inside, however, everything was different.
The sofa was gone. The small kitchen table where she had her evening tea was gone. Gone were the framed photos, the slippers by the door, the knitted tablecloths she loved so much. The closets were empty except for a few hangers that swayed slightly—as if waiting for someone who would never return.
