My son and his wife went on a cruise, leaving me to babysit my 8-year-old grandson, who had been mute since birth. As soon as the door clicked shut, he stopped rocking, looked me dead in the eye, and whispered in a perfect voice. “Grandma, don’t drink the tea Mom made for you.
She plotted.”
My blood ran cold. I never imagined that watching my 8-year-old grandson could turn my world upside down. At 66, I thought I’d experienced every surprise life could throw at me.
I was wrong. The morning Dean and Nyla left for their 7-day cruise, I felt that familiar mix of joy and exhaustion that comes with caring for Damian. My grandson had been diagnosed as non-verbal since birth.
And while I loved him deeply, our time together was always filled with silent gestures, patient waiting, and the constant ache of wondering what thoughts lived behind his bright brown eyes. “Mom, you’re sure you can handle him for a week?” Dean asked for the third time as he loaded their suitcases into the car. His voice carried that tone I’d grown to recognize over the years—love mixed with obligation, as if caring for his own mother was just another burden on his already full plate.
“I’ve been caring for children since before you were born,” I reminded him, adjusting my cardigan against the cool October morning. “Damian and I will be just fine.”
Nyla emerged from the house, her platinum blonde hair perfectly styled despite the early hour. She carried herself with that particular brand of confidence that comes from never having to doubt your place in the world.
At 34, she had the kind of beauty that turned heads, and the kind of ambition that never seemed satisfied with what she had. “Lucinda, I’ve prepared some special tea for you,” she said, her voice honeyed with false concern. “The chamomile blend you love so much.
I made enough to last the whole week. Just add hot water to the packets I left on the counter.”
I nodded gratefully, though something in her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s very thoughtful, dear.”
“And remember,” she continued, placing a manicured hand on my shoulder, “Damian’s bedtime is exactly at 8:00.
He gets very agitated if his routine is disrupted. The pediatrician said consistency is crucial for children with his condition.”
Damian stood beside me, his small hand clasped in mine. He wore his favorite dinosaur shirt and carried the worn stuffed elephant he’d had since he was two.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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