Zack is 29 and technically an adult, though responsibility has never seemed to stick to him. He’s cycled through jobs the way other people cycle through playlists, always broke yet somehow always posting photos of new gadgets, rare sneakers, and nights out. Since we were teenagers, he’s taken more than he’s given—and somehow always landed on his feet.

Marg never held it against him.

She’d squeeze my hand and say softly, “Some people bloom later, Lily. Some just need a little more love than others.” She believed it, completely.

I tried to believe it too. But it was hard, watching her give and give while Zack only showed up when there was something in it for him.

Then Marg got sick.

And that was when everything began to change.

It started with her saying she was tired more often, then a fall in the kitchen, then a hospital stay, and then, way too fast, a small bedroom in a local hospice.Zack visited exactly twice, both times with coffee for himself and some excuse about traffic or work or whatever kept him from being there more.

Grandma never complained, just squeezed his hand like it was the best thing in the world that he had shown up at all.

She died on a clear Tuesday afternoon while I was sitting next to her, reading aloud from one of those mystery novels she liked where the killer is always the neighbor with the perfect lawn.

Bailey was curled on the floor by the bed, and when her breathing stopped, he lifted his head, looked at her for a long second, and then let out this soft, broken sound that I didn’t know a dog could make.

I stayed there through the paperwork, the calls, the awkward condolences from neighbors carrying casseroles.Bailey stayed too, pressed against my ankles like he was afraid I would vanish if he moved.