My name is Lucinda Morrison, and I was sixty-six years old the October my world turned upside down in our quiet little town just outside Columbus, Ohio.
I honestly thought life had run out of ways to surprise me.
I was wrongMy son Dean and his wife Nyla were heading off on a seven-day cruise out of Florida, leaving me to watch my eight-year-old grandson, Damian. He had been labeled non-verbal since birth, and for eight long years I’d never heard the sound of his voice.
That morning, my small front yard was littered with fallen maple leaves, the air cool and sharp the way it gets in the Midwest when summer finally gives up. Dean was loading their suitcases into the trunk of their shiny sedan, talking over his shoulder in that careful tone I’d come to recognize—love mixed with obligation, like caring for his own mother was something to check off his to-do list.
“Mom, you’re sure you can handle him for a week?” Dean asked for the third time, muscles straining as he hefted a suitcase into the car.I tightened my cardigan around me and lifted my chin. “I’ve been taking care of children since before you were born,” I reminded him. “Damian and I will be just fine.”
The front door opened and Nyla stepped out onto the porch. Even at that hour, she looked like she’d stepped out of a lifestyle magazine—platinum-blond hair smooth and flawless, nails done, makeup subtle and expensive. At thirty-four she had the kind of beauty that turned heads at the grocery store and the kind of ambition that never seemed satisfied with what she already had.
She carried a sleek weekender bag in one manicured hand and a small insulated tote in the other.“Lucinda, I prepared some special tea for you,” she said, her voice honey-sweet, thick with a concern that somehow never reached her eyes. “The chamomile blend you love so much. I made enough to last the whole week. Just add hot water to the packets I left on the counter.”
I nodded, a little surprised. Nyla wasn’t usually the thoughtful-gesture type unless there was an audience.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said.She stepped closer, resting her manicured hand lightly on my shoulder.
“And remember,” she added, “Damian’s bedtime is exactly at eight. He gets very agitated if his routine is disrupted. The pediatrician said consistency is crucial for kids with his condition.”
“We’ll stick to his routine,” I promised.Damian stood beside me on the porch, his small hand tucked trustingly into mine. He wore his favorite dinosaur T-shirt and carried the worn stuffed elephant he’d had since he was two. To anyone passing by on the street, he would have looked exactly like what the reports said: a special-needs child, quiet and withdrawn, dependent on the adults around him to navigate a confusing world.
Dean slammed the trunk shut and came to hug me.
“Call if you need anything,” he said. “Anything at all.”
“Go enjoy your trip,” I told him. “We’ll be fine.Nyla knelt and gave Damian a quick, careful hug, like she was posing for a photo.
“Be good for Grandma,” she said. “No fussing, okay?”
