"Thank you. That's—thank you. Coffee? I made a pot."
"I'd love some."
So for about twenty minutes, nothing happened. I want you to understand how normal it was, because that's how these things go. You think the big moment is going to come in with music. It comes in after twenty minutes of coffee. Abuela sat at the kitchen table with her jacket still on and her accordion file on the floor by her chair, drinking her coffee black from the mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST MOM, and she asked about the dental office, and my mother told her about Dr. Kemper's new hygienist who cried every time a patient complained, and Abuela laughed, a real laugh, and I sat on the counter swinging my legs and thought maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe she'd just come to see my plum.
Sadie came out of our room at about ten-fifty. She'd heard Abuela's voice. She came out shy, the way she always was with Abuela, who wasn't technically her grandmother but who had always, since Sadie was a baby, brought her the pig-shaped cookies and asked her the same three questions she asked me. Sadie was wearing the white sneakers with the pink lining. She'd had them on since she woke up.
"Hi, Mrs. A," Sadie said.
"Hello, Sadie, my love. Come give me a squeeze." Abuela hugged her with one arm. Then she held her back a little and looked down. "Look at those shoes."
"They're new," Sadie said, glowing. "I got three pairs. Daddy sent the money. Do you want to see the other ones?"
"I would love to see the other ones," Abuela said. "Go put on the boots for me. The warm ones. I want to see how warm they look."
Sadie ran back to our room. My mother put her coffee mug down on the counter very carefully, so it didn't make a sound.
"Connie," she said, low.
"Joanna," Abuela said, pleasantly. She hadn't turned around. She was still looking at the doorway Sadie had gone through. "Noemi. Come here, mija. Sit in this chair."