From where I was, I could see the tiny flicker of impatience in her jaw, the one that appeared whenever someone was slow to obey. I had spent most of my life reacting to that look. On Remembrance Day, for the first time, I let someone else handle the situation and stayed exactly where I was.
Three years earlier, no one in my family wanted
I didn't care about my grandmother's farm. They said it was too far away, too old, too difficult to maintain. My sister would wrinkle her nose and ask why Grandma June insisted on living in "that dump." Derek called it "the dump" so often that the expression eventually became commonplace, which was perhaps worse.
When Grandma's hips gave out and she stopped reading…
