She made chicken stew.
Fresh bread.
And a peach cobbler that my granddaughter insisted she'd helped prepare.
I discovered later that her contribution involved eating several peach slices before they reached the baking dish.
During dinner, the child told me about school.
Her teacher.
Her friends.
And a boy who'd been making fun of her pink raincoat.
My temper rose.
I asked what he'd said.
She looked toward me.
"He said it looks like a baby coat."
I frowned.
"Did you tell your teacher?"
She nodded.
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
"The teacher talked to him."
I took a breath.
"Good."
The girl looked at me.
Then asked, "Are you going to go yell at him?"
I blinked.
The grandmother watched me carefully.
For one moment, my old instincts returned.
I wanted to tell the child nobody would ever treat her badly again.
Wanted to promise I'd straighten out anyone who upset her.
But then I remembered my daughter.
How often I'd confused protection with control.
I looked toward my granddaughter.
"No."
She seemed surprised.
I continued.
"You and your grandmother are handling it. If you need help, we can talk about what would be useful."
The girl nodded.
Then smiled.
"Good."
I frowned.
"Good?"
She laughed.
"I don't want you yelling at kids."
The grandmother nearly choked on her tea.
I laughed too.
"Fair enough."
After dinner, we sat on the porch.
The desert air was cool.
Stars appeared above the rooftops.
The little girl sat between us, wrapped in a blanket, working on a small piece of embroidery.
I watched her hands.
She moved carefully.
Sometimes stopping to count stitches.
Sometimes pulling the thread back when something didn't look right.
She reminded me of my daughter at the kitchen table thirty years earlier.
Eventually, the girl looked up.
"Are you leaving tomorrow?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
Her expression fell.
"Why?"
I took a breath.
"I have some things to take care of back home."
She looked toward the road.
"Will you come back?"
I wanted to say next weekend.
Every weekend.
Whenever she wanted.
But nine hundred miles wasn't a distance I could casually promise to cross every Saturday.
I thought about the workshop.
My obligations.
And the financial review I needed to arrange.
Then I answered.
"I'd like to come back next month, if your grandmother agrees and we can make the plans work."
The child studied me.
"Next month is a long time."