“Even if the adult is me,” Martha said.
Jack’s raising his hand.
But can the book still be a surprise?
I started laughing.
The book can.
Two months later, I turned forty-four years old.
At breakfast, the kids brought me a big package.
On the cover it said:
“The stories of our family – told by Grandma Martha.”
Inside were photographs.
Stories.
Drawings.
Responses to all notes in plastic tubes.
I learned things about Mike that we hadn’t even knew after nearly twenty years together.
I learned about Marthei and Harold’s first apartment.
About the day Mike was born.
About how Harold played poorly at the harmonica, but insisted on playing on every trip by car.
On the last page was a photo of Martha, Emma and Jack.
Under it, my daughter wrote:
“Grandma says family is about keeping the stories, not the smoke.”
I started to cry.
Martha didn’t quit smoking in one day.
