of you, Calvin,” she whispered. “You’re my doctor.”
It was the happiest and saddest moment of my life.
That night, my grandmother died quietly in her sleep, in the house she loved, surrounded by the things that had been her world—her paintings, her marigolds outside the window, the faint smell of cookies still lingering in the kitchen.
Me senté en el silencio que siguió, sosteniendo las caléndulas de pintura que había hecho para mí, como si un pedazo de mi alma estuviera cortado. Pero incluso en mi dolor, sabía que