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Or perhaps she had been gone for years, and I had been loving a memory.
Part 2: The Cedar Box
I did not cry in front of them.
I pressed my palm to the floor, ignoring the broken glass beneath my hand, and pushed myself up.
My knees shook.
But they held.
Graham, Natalie’s husband, finally stood.
“Beatrice, maybe you should sit down.”
He had never called me Grandma. Never Mrs. Alden. Always Beatrice, as if respect would cost him something.
“I am standing,” I said.
My voice was soft, but the room grew colder.
Natalie gave a bitter laugh.
“Oh, please. Don’t make this dramatic.”
I touched my split lip.
The blood came away bright red.
“Dramatic,” I repeated.
Then I looked around the dining room.
Some guests stared at their phones. Some looked down. Some examined their wine glasses as if courage might be floating in the Merlot.
I understood them all.
They had come to watch the old queen fall.
They just had not expected the sound to be so human.
Without another word, I walked out of the dining room.
Behind me, Natalie called, “Grandma, stop being ridiculous.”
I kept walking.
Up the stairs.
Past the framed photo of Clara holding baby Natalie.