I press the spatula gently against one of the sausages, testing it. It gives under the pressure, not ready yet.
I stare at the pan without seeing it.
“Christina,” I say carefully, “is everything okay?”
“I saw your grandfather today,” she says finally.
My grip tightens slightly on the spatula.
The image of him appears instantly. Sitting in the garden with that blanket he insists he doesn’t need. Watching everything like it matters more than he lets on.
“Oh,” I say.
“He told me you’d been there.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yesterday.”
I’d gone after work. Sat with him longer than I meant to. Longer than necessary. But that’s never the point with him.
“He told me you told him about us.”
Something shifts in my chest.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Something steadier.
“I did,” I say.
There had never been a question about it. He was the first person I wanted to tell. The only person, really. Because he’s the one who raised me. Because his opinion still carries weight in ways no one else’s does.
Because if something matters, he should know.
“He was very sweet,” she says.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Something isn’t sitting right.
“I asked him something,” she says.
I turn the heat off without thinking.
“What did you ask him?”
She hesitates.
Long enough that I feel it in my stomach.
“If he thought you might be embarrassed,” she says quietly.
I frown.
“Embarrassed?”