October 2026 - Vol. 23, Issue 5

Eleven of us had gathered in the living room, which was entirely too many for the cramped space. I sought refuge in the dark kitchen, observing the ritual of scrolling. My elbows pressed into the kitchen table, a knee on the chair, craning my neck toward the phone.

Evelyn entered and flipped the overhead light on, but I forced my body to remain rigid. Her eyes widened when she spotted me, and then a smile formed and her shoulders softened. She opened two cabinets before finally finding the glasses. She ran the faucet for three seconds before placing the glass under the stream. That’s how you flush out the toxins in the water. All the invisible build-up of germs and rust and fecal matter and covid. Surely the pipes had begun to flake, right? There’s no way those metal tubes buried underground were as clean as we all pretended they were.

“That’s a nice sweater,” she said.

I glanced down, remembering that I have a body. Arms, legs, feet even. Jesus, how long since I’d seen my own feet? The sweater was quite sleek.

“A lovely green,” she added. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear green.” She had. It was literally impossible that she hadn’t seen me wear green. We even had a matching outfit on the first day of school in 1994. She wore that forest green plaid skirt while I had the green corduroy pants. Mom had thought it such a cute color combination for a six-year-old-boy and his ten-year-old-sister. We’d posed in front of the kitchen counter in this very house, backpacks strapped to our shoulders and hair parted. The drinking glasses were kept in the same cabinet even then. How had she forgotten?

The sweater was new. Well, not new exactly, just the first time I’d worn it. It sat in my closet for such a long time and I couldn’t remember exactly how I’d come to own it. I’d removed the tags just that morning, and my hands still stung from the plastic bands threaded through the knitted holes. I couldn’t actually remember pulling it over my head. It had no buttons, so I must have. I wore a light grey undershirt beneath it. That part, I remember. I’ve always hated the texture of sweaters, but when I was six I didn’t have words to explain it. Instead, I carried the grief of knowing that sometimes I had to wear things that made me want to cry. If I refused, I’d hurt the feelings of the people who’d gifted them to me.

“It’s a nice shirt, Gregory,” Mom would have said.

Maybe it’d been a Christmas present. I faintly remembered opening a cardboard box, sealed with packing tape instead of scotch tape. You’re supposed to use scotch tape on presents because it’s easier for people to open. Packing tape is for when you expect somebody to tamper with a package, or if you’re shipping something cross-country and it’s crucial it arrives unscathed. Or when you move halfway through the eighth grade because Mom and Dad are fighting. And you can’t pack all of your toys, because there simply isn’t enough room in the back of the station wagon. So, you only pack the important things like the Lego Bionicles and the Gameboy Advance with Pokemon Gold. And you stay silent for the entire drive to the cheap motel room where you have to share a bed with your older sister. And she can’t stop telling you how stupid you are for playing with toys when everything is ruined. And so, you just stop playing.

“I think Jeff got it for me,” I said. Her husband. The moment I spoke the words, I began to doubt their truth. We hadn’t bonded, but he always pretended to try and I always treated him with kindness, despite the fact we’d never coexist.

“Jeff got you that?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.

She took a step closer, running her hand against the texture, tugging it with her finger. “It’s nice. You look good in green.”

I didn’t want to be in the living room, but standing in the kitchen became somehow worse. It’s the light. There’s no reason for a light that bright unless you’re cooking, but it would be obscene to cook anything at this time of night.

I wandered back, hoping the gathering wouldn’t notice I’d left or returned. Mom remained in the same chair, and nobody prodded her to speak, of course. They just sat in silence, pretending like they didn’t know. We all pretended.

It was up to Mom to share the news. Grandma had passed. She was with God now, and Mom’s allowed to cry, but only silently. A tear from one eye or both. But her voice should remain steady, unwavering.

Only, she hadn’t said anything for so long, despite the waiting audience. Jeff was off in the corner and he gave me a sad smile as I entered. Likely because I wore the sweater. It was quite nice. Synthetic, of course. Nobody sat for hours knitting or crocheting this monstrosity to life. It reminded me of another one I’d once ordered for an Ugly Christmas Sweater day at work. It turned out to be one of those machine-woven acrylic blends with the ugly sweater pattern ironed onto it. The whole front was stiff, like wearing plastic wrap across my chest. These are strange times, it said in slanted letters above sheet music, but I didn’t know what it meant. I never could read music, but always thought it’d be a fun thing to learn. A party trick that might make people impressed about how knowledgeable I am. Gregory can read sheet music! It’s like learning a second language or how to play chess. I should clarify: I actually did know how to play chess. I knew the positions of every piece, the names of the squares and several famous openings. I just couldn’t understand the strategy. The king’s knight opening was e-four, e-five, knight to f-three, but everybody knew that opening, so they would’ve anticipated it and had a counter ready to deploy.

I knew no such counters, though.

“I’m—” Mom began.

She swallowed the words and stared at the arm of the chair. Nobody said anything, which meant I wasn’t supposed to either. Her dog, Chester, scratched his ear. He hit a stride and leaned into it. An audible ermph, and then a sigh.

Evelyn sat beside Jeff, leaning into his shoulder. It was too intimate for a moment like this. If everyone fidgeted in their seats, Mom might realize the hour was late and say what she’d meant to from the start. But everyone was at ease, even Aunt Enid. The cousins whispered about sports out in the hall, and Uncle was showing the kids games on his phone.

The children, somehow still awake, were quite out of place in the room. We should have opened a bedroom, cleared the spirits from the air and allowed them to rest. Instead, they rubbed fists into their eyes until they’d gone red. Earlier, I’d felt fingers tugging my sleeve toward their cheek. I allowed it, but didn’t look down to see which child was accosting me.

My sweater was quite beautiful, and it fit me perfectly, if I were the kind of person to be comfortable in a modern sweater like this.

And I missed her, of course. Grandma. We weren’t supposed to know she’d passed, but nobody goes to that care facility expecting to leave. I told Lars this three weeks ago, only for him to correct me. Aunt Beatrice had gone there for a month and was sent home. I reminded him she’d been sent to home hospice, so it didn’t count.

“I’m not ready,” Mom said.

The words were redundant. We already knew. She let twenty minutes stretch into ninety. Ten people, plus Mom, in a living room meant for half that many. More company than last Christmas. There’s no conceivable reason why we all would’ve stayed and endured such conditions if it weren’t for the waiting. If it weren’t for the knowing.

We’d all talked about it for weeks. The cousins were already planning a down payment for a house, and Aunt Enid had been sobbing into her coffee in public. She’d sat on the patio of a cafe, depositing tears into her cup and then leaving it there on the table for the barista to collect.

My sweater slid across my shoulder blades, defying the grey undershirt meant to protect me. Fibers peeled away from the coiled loops and burrowed. I’d read an article about a woman who sat on her couch for so long it became part of her skin. I’d never met that woman, or even learned her name, but her demise had imprinted itself on me. Only, without her name, what right did I have to such a fear?

“I’ll call you all tomorrow,” Mom announced. “Not tonight. Go home. I’m sorry, I just can’t do this right now.”

Released from captivity, the living room emptied one by one. After fifteen minutes of cascading goodbyes, kisses that barely grazed their targets and handshakes between men too masculine to hug, it was just me and Mom. A sob negotiated an escape from her lips, but it wasn’t for me, so I pretended not to hear.

“I could make the calls for you,” I said.

She looked up, seeing me for the first time since that 1994 photo. Evelyn and me, matching green. Corduroy that didn’t belong and plaid that didn’t understand.

“No, Gregory.” She cleared her throat. “That’s not your responsibility.”

“But if I can help,” I said. “Let me. I can call them all one by one, tell them what happened, and then you wouldn’t have to. I can do it. Really, Mom. You shouldn’t have to put yourself through all of that.”

She considered it, or maybe she only paused for show. Ultimately, she shook her head and said nothing more.

“Why?” I asked.

I could have left with the others. I could vanish. Take off the sweater and leave it on the sidewalk, or throw it on the roof. And then for years everyone on Google Street View would wonder why there was a beautiful green sweater stuck to the roof.

“It wouldn’t help,” she said. “I’d still need to call again anyway. No sense in doing it twice or postponing the inevitable. You can’t take this from me.”

Take. The word stuck, but I couldn’t come up with anything meaningful to attach to it. “But you wouldn’t need to. That’s the point. I could do it. No trouble at all. Let me fix this.” I leaned against the hallway wall, fingers finding the doorway’s high-gloss molding and the horizontal lines marking Evelyn’s height, and mine. They’d been painted over, but you could feel the imprints and barely legible names. I could have told her everyone already knew about Grandma, that she could just avoid talking about it entirely, but some part of me held back. Maybe that’s growth. Maybe that’s important.

She shook her head. “That’s not your job, Gregory. You just… Thank you. But no.”

I wanted to ask her why again, but expected no meaningful answer. She’d just rephrase the same objection, adding nothing other than an exasperated tone. If I pressed her, I could make her angry. If she was angry, she wouldn’t be sad. I studied the markings on the wall.

Mom and Dad had gotten back together after that trip to the cheap motel. Only, when we returned to the house, it was to a different person. He’d shaved his beard and thrown away all the toys I’d left behind. I didn’t play anymore, so there was no reason to be upset. Besides, my bedroom was pristine. A fresh coat of paint, too. A lovely green.