“With me,” she replied. “That’s all that matters.”

That first night, she made pancakes for dinner.

Peeling wallpaper. Stacks of books everywhere. The scent of cinnamon, old paper, and detergent clinging to everything.
The floor creaked in exactly three places.

“Pancakes are for emergencies,” she said, flipping one badly. “And this definitely counts.”

I laughed, even though my throat hurt.

That was how we began.

Life with Grandma was modest and full.

She worked mornings at the laundromat. Cleaned offices at night.
On weekends, she repaired clothes at the kitchen table while I did homework.

Her sweaters wore thin at the elbows. Her shoes were held together with tape more than rubber.
At the store, she checked every price tag, sometimes putting items back quietly.

But I never lacked what mattered.

Birthday cakes with my name iced carefully.
Picture-day money tucked into envelopes.
New notebooks every school year.

At church, people smiled and whispered, “They’re like mother and daughter.”

“She is my girl,” Grandma always said. “That’s enough.”

We had routines.

Sunday tea, overly sweet.
Card games where she suddenly forgot the rules when I started losing.
Library trips where she pretended to browse, then followed me into the children’s section.

At night, she read aloud even when I could read myself.

Sometimes she fell asleep mid-page.
I’d mark the spot and drape a blanket over her.

“Roles reversed,” I’d whisper.

“Don’t get clever,” she’d murmur without opening her eyes.

It wasn’t perfect—but it was ours.

Until I turned fifteen and decided it wasn’t.

High school changed everything.

Status suddenly came with car keys.

Who drove. Who got dropped off.
Who arrived shiny—and who still smelled like bus tickets.

I was firmly in the second category.

“Why don’t you ask her?” my friend Leah said. “My parents helped me get one.”

“Because my grandma counts grapes,” I replied. “She’s not exactly the ‘buy-a-car’ type.”

Still, envy crept in.

So one night, I tried.

“Everyone drives now.”

Grandma sat at the table counting bills.
Her glasses slipped down her nose.
The good mug—with the cracked rim and faded flowers—rested beside her.

“Grandma?”

“Mmm?”

“I think I need a car.”

“The car can wait.”

She snorted. “You think you need a car.”