I squeezed her hand, unable to speak through the sudden lump in my throat.
Over the months that followed, the house on the hill returned to life.
The garden beds were cleared and replanted with fresh winter perennials.
The kitchen filled again with the smell of roasted chicken, fresh bread, and hot tea.
Neighbors stopped by on weekends, bringing fruit pies and catching up on porch conversations interrupted during her illness.
My parents never returned to the driveway.
They moved out of town six months later, unable to face the quiet judgment of a community that knew exactly what they had tried to do.
On a cold, clear December evening—almost a year after the day I picked her up from that nursing home lobby—Grandma Eleanor and I walked onto the front porch to watch the first light snow fall over the garden.
The air was crisp and still.
