I learned fast.
I learned how to warm three bottles at once. I learned Rose hated being rocked too quickly. May wouldn’t sleep unless someone hummed. June screamed if her socks felt wrong, and heaven help the fool who ignored her.
That was the first time I said it.
***
The first time I tried to braid Rose’s hair for school, she sat on a kitchen stool with her shoulders stiff.
“Grandpa,” she said carefully, “is it supposed to pull my face back like this?”
June leaned around her. “She looks surprised.”
May giggled into her cereal.
I sighed, untied the braid, and started again. “Nobody leaves this house looking surprised unless it’s picture day.”
“Is it supposed to pull my face back like this?”
***
That’s how most of those years went. I learned by messing up.
I fixed shelves, mowed lawns, and stocked hardware supplies.
When the power bill came high, I called it “an ambitious piece of paper.” Pancakes for dinner became “breakfast with confidence.”
The girls laughed, but they knew.
I learned by messing up.
***
One night, when they were seven, May stared at her worn sneakers while I stirred macaroni.
“Grandpa, are we poor?”
June pushed her taped glasses up. “We are. Just say it.”
“We’re temporarily underfunded,” I said.
“That means poor.”
“It means we still have supper,” I told her. “And supper means we’re doing all right.”
“Grandpa, are we poor?”
Rose watched me from the table. “You’re tired.”
“I’m old, sweetheart. I’m allowed to be tired.”
They laughed, and I held on to that sound like rent money.
The years didn’t get easy. They got meaningful.
Rose became the one who noticed everything. If my back hurt, she’d clear the dishes before I reached for the sink.
“I’m allowed to be tired.”
May kept every birthday card and cried at commercials with lost dogs.
June fixed loose hinges, argued with rude clerks, and never let anyone talk over me.
***
By their 20th birthday, I thought I knew every corner of our little family.
Then the first package came.
No name. No return address.
