Chapter 10 - Sunday DinnerThree days after touching down in Chicago, rested, jet-lagged, and deeply sun-kissed, I found myself standing in my own kitchen stirring a large pot of marinara sauce.
The doorbell rang precisely at 5:50 p.m.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and walked down the hallway to open the door.
Standing on my porch was Caleb, holding a large bouquet of yellow sunflowers—my absolute favorite—while Tori stood beside him holding a casserole dish, looking slightly chastised but genuinely warm. Behind them, all four children spilled across the porch steps.
“Hi, Grandma!” Maggie squealed, running forward to wrap her arms around my knees. “Did you bring me a seashell from the ocean?”
I reached into my cardigan pocket and pulled out a smooth, pale pink spiral shell I had pocketed from a secluded cove in Lagos, placing it right in her small palm.
Maggie’s eyes went wide as saucers. “It’s real!”
“Of course it is,” I smiled, looking up as Caleb stepped inside and handed me the sunflowers.
“Welcome home, Mom,” Caleb said softly, kissing my cheek.
“Thank you, honey,” I smiled, then looked past him to Tori, who offered a tentative, respectful smile.
“Welcome back, Myrna,” Tori said, shifting the casserole dish in her hands. “Patrice told us all about your hotel balcony views. Sounds incredible.”
“It was,” I said brightly, stepping back to let the family flood into the hallway. “And the best part? I didn't have to pack a single red folder.”
Tori flushed slightly, a rueful grin touching her lips. “Point taken. Message received loud and clear.”
Later that evening, as we all sat around my dining room table eating spaghetti, laughing over funny travel stories about Joyce getting lost in a Lisbon tile museum, and passing the garlic bread, I looked around the room.
The house was noisy, messy, and full of life—just the way a family home should be. But for the first time in five years, I didn't feel like I was holding the ceiling up by myself. I was just a grandmother sitting at the head of her own table, sharing stories of a world that had finally gotten a little bit bigger.
After dinner, as Caleb and Tori were loading the kids into the SUV for the drive back to the suburbs, Eli lingered by the front door for a second.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, roughly shaped clay bowl with a slightly lopsided rim, glazed in a glossy cobalt blue.
“I made this at the community center art room while you were gone,” Eli muttered, looking down at his sneakers with uncharacteristic shyness. “It kind of leans to the left... but I figured you could use another bowl for your kitchen.”
I took the heavy ceramic bowl from his hands. It wasn't symmetrical, and the glaze was a little thick on one side, but it was warm, solid, and made with love.
I pulled my grandson into a tight, fierce hug.
“Eli, it’s the most beautiful bowl I’ve ever seen,” I whispered. “It’s coming right with me on my next trip.”
Eli looked up, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. “Where are you going next, Grandma?”
May you like
I smiled, looking out the front window toward the darkening evening sky where the stars were just beginning to blink into view.
“I haven't decided yet,” I told him. “But I’m thinking somewhere with a lot of old stone and very few rules.”
