After Eli passed, I told myself I’d only stay a few months, just long enough to help Taran get her footing. She was juggling grief, toddler twins, and a husband who worked unpredictable hours. I had the time, the energy, and the instinct. So, I moved in. That was three years ago. At first, it felt good to be needed. I woke early, packed school lunches, rotated loads of laundry. I took my pension and slotted it into the cracks. Their paychecks couldn’t reach groceries, electricity, daycare deposits. I paid without fuss. That’s what family does, I told myself. But as the months passed, the thank‑yous thinned out. The favors became expectations, and the space I occupied—physically and emotionally—grew smaller.
Taran stopped asking if I’d join them for dinner. The twins started calling Bet—Niles’s mother—the other grandma, even though she lived across town and rarely showed up. I’d mention Eli now and then, only to be met with silence, as if he were an old TV show no one watched anymore.
