I hit STOP.
I didn’t mean to. My finger just landed on the button.
The silence that followed was awful.
Grandma had apologized to me before. For burning the cookies. For forgetting to save me the newspaper crossword. Once, for handing my birthday card to the wrong granddaughter.
But this sounded different.
I took a breath and pressed PLAY.
“As you got older, I got used to having you around,” she said. “And I loved it, Shannon. I truly did. After your grandfather died, there were days this apartment felt terribly quiet. Sometimes I’d mention that when you called.”
I remembered. It’s so quiet here today. I haven’t had anyone to talk to all morning.
And every time, I’d offered to come over.
“I didn’t always stop to think about what those words might make you feel you had to do,” she said.
I stared at the little machine.
“You were nineteen when your friends invited you away for a weekend. Do you remember?”
I did.
A cabin by a lake. Four friends. Two nights away. I’d been so excited, right up until Grandma called to ask if I was coming for Sunday lunch.
I told my friends I couldn’t make it. Family plans.
“You told me you’d rather come over,” Grandma said. “And I believed you.”
I looked down at the table.
“Later, I heard you telling your mother that you hadn’t wanted to disappoint me.”
I remembered that too. Mom telling me I was allowed to go. Me insisting it was fine. Spending that Sunday in Grandma’s kitchen laughing over some ridiculous bingo story.
It hadn’t been a bad afternoon. That was what made the memory so hard to hold.
“I was so proud that you loved me,” Grandma said. “And so ashamed that I’d let you believe loving me meant never letting me down.”
I pressed my fingertips against the edge of the table.
She had never once mentioned that cabin trip. Not in all the years since.
“I tried to do better after that,” she continued. “You might remember I started making more plans with Mabel and the girls.”
I did. I’d call, and she’d tell me she couldn’t see me Sunday. Come Tuesday instead. I’ve got bingo.
And sometimes, I’ll admit, I was a little hurt. Not seriously. Just enough to wonder if she’d grown tired of me.
“I enjoyed those afternoons,” she said. “And I enjoyed knowing you had places to be that didn’t involve me.”
A pause.
“Although I still say that one fellow you dated was a complete waste of a perfectly good Saturday.”
I laughed through my tears. “Grandma.“
She’d hated that boyfriend. Apparently, death hadn’t softened her opinion one bit.
Then she said, “There’s one more recording I want you to hear. It’s an old message you left on my answering machine. I used to play it back with this recorder running. I didn’t realize I’d caught my own voice afterward until I listened.”
A click. The sound shifted.
My own voice came through, thin and far away.
“Hi, Grandma! I can’t come Sunday, I’ve got something planned. But I’ll see you Tuesday, okay? Love you!”
I held my breath.
Then I heard Grandma. Not speaking to me. Just alone in her apartment, right after listening to my message.
A small, surprised laugh.
“Well, look at that. My girl has somewhere she wants to be.”
A pause.
“Good for her.”
I folded over the table.
I couldn’t even remember what I’d been doing that Sunday. Something forgettable, probably. And she’d been happy about it.
The tape clicked once more before her voice returned.
“I liked our Sundays, sweetheart.” A pause. “I liked the Tuesdays too.”
Then the tape went silent.
I didn’t move for a long time.
Eventually, I picked up the envelope and checked inside. No hidden note. No second gift. Just my name, written in that familiar, slanted handwriting.
Part of me still wished she’d left me the pearl necklace. Part of me wished she’d said all of this while we could still sit together in her kitchen.
But mostly, I just wanted to hear that little laugh again.
I rewound the tape.
Before I could press PLAY, my phone lit up.
It was the cousin who’d laughed at me in the lawyer’s office.
“Shannon? Did you listen to it?”
I looked at the cassette player.
“Yes.”
Her voice dropped, careful and a little too casual.
“So… what was on it?”
Part 3: What I Kept for Myself
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