“Are you sorry Grandma broke your gingerbread house?”
Renee opened her eyes.
She laughed.
Unexpected.
“Yes.”
I laughed too.
“Was it good?”
“It won second place the year before.”
“You think it would have won?”
“Absolutely.”
“Grandma says structural failure.”
Renee covered her face.
“She sent me a check for ingredients.”
“What?”
“After divorce.”
That sounded exactly like Grandma.
“Did you cash it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Pride.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
We both laughed.
That was the first good moment between us after Christmas.
It did not repair everything.
But it opened a door.
I saw Renee occasionally after that.
Never alone until I was adult.
Dad did not control relationship.
He also did not push.
He dated eventually.
Three women over six years.
He did not remarry until I was twenty-four.
Her name was Jocelyn.
Before engagement, Dad asked:
“How do you feel?”
I groaned.
“I’m twenty-four.”
“You're still my kid.”
“I like her.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“More importantly, you like her.”
Dad smiled.
“I do.”
Jocelyn was different from Mom.
Different from Renee.
That was good.
She never moved Mom’s photographs.
She also added her own.
The house became layered instead of replaced.
At their wedding, Grandma Pearl whispered:
“Your father has expensive emotional education.”
I almost choked.
Grandma was seventy-nine.
Still sharp.
At reception, Renee was not there.
Malik and Zoe were.
Zoe danced with Dad.
No one thought it strange.
Families, I learned, could survive altered definitions.
Grandma Pearl died when I was twenty-eight.
That loss broke me almost as deeply as Mom’s.
She died peacefully after a stroke.
In her will, she left me her plum cardigan.
No explanation.
I laughed through tears.
She also left me a small envelope.
Inside was a photocopy.
The check she had sent Renee for gingerbread ingredients.
On it, Renee had written:
RETURNED. WE ARE EVEN ON GINGERBREAD. NOT ON CHRISTMAS TREES.
I laughed so hard at Grandma’s kitchen table that my stomach hurt.
Then cried.
Grandma had also written a note:
Amara,