She had also taught Wyatt one silly rule.
If you’re ever in trouble and can’t say it out loud, say “peach cobbler.”
Any grown-up who loves you will know what it means.
He had loved the game from the age of five.
“Peach cobbler,” he’d whisper in the grocery line, giggling, and Grandma would solemnly pat her purse and say, “Message received.”
Nobody had ever used it for real.
So when her heart condition suddenly worsened last month and the cardiologist said she needed major surgery, I didn’t think twice.
I brought her home with us to recover.
Our house is small.
Two bedrooms upstairs, a narrow hallway between them, and a night-light I’d plugged in outside Wyatt’s door years ago.
We turned the sewing room into Grandma’s.
Wyatt became her little shadow.
He carried her water glass in both hands so it wouldn’t spill.
