When Ruby’s daughter, Cindy, claims that her grandmother always has a ‘friend’ around, Ruby assumes that it’s someone she knows.
But then, Cindy mentions that the ‘friend’ is named William — the exact name of Ruby’s father, who died a while ago.
My family has always been tight-knit — I’m an only child, so I grew up extremely close to my parents.
They were at every field hockey game I played and attended every parent’s meeting at my school. And it didn’t stop when I went to college.
They came over every third week, and Mom brought food.But when my father passed away, everything changed. I have my own family now — a husband and a six-year-old daughter named Cindy.
Since my father passed away, my Mom hasn’t been the same.
Before, she was a “hippie” Mom who wore dungarees and painted almost everything in sight.
I loved it. I loved the spirit that came with it. But the day we buried my father, something changed.
That spirit died down, diminished to a shadow of herself.
Now, my Mom wants to spend more time with us at home. She especially likes to spend time with Cindy and bond with her. Sometimes, I drop Cindy off at my Mom’s place; sometimes,
she picks her up and drops her off after whatever adventure they’ve been on.
But recently, whenever my Mom drops Cindy off, my daughter cries all the time and avoids her grandmother while Mom catches me up on what they did.
I love my mother, so I’m not trying to make up any conspiracy theories about what happens when they’realone.
But even I’ll admit, it’s concerning. Recently, I decided to talk to Cindy about it all.
Our favorite bonding activity is baking. She loves adding the ingredients and mixing the batter, only to lick the leftover batter from a spoon.
“Honey,” I said, dropping the flour into the bowl for Cindy to mix.
“I have a question for you.” Yes, Mama?” she said. “Why do you cry when grandma is home? What’s wrong?
Did something happen?” That’s three questions,” Cindy said cheekily.
“Tell me, baby,” I said with a slight smile. Cindy took a deep breath and sighed. It’s because of grandma’s friend.
He’s always around.” “What friend?” I asked.
“She always does things with you alone. Other than that time she and her friend, Beth, took you to the knitting class.”
Cindy smiled at the memory. “But if Grandma is always alone, why does she ask me to say hello to William?” William?” I muttered.
“Before we eat anything, Grandma always says to offer it to William first.
But I don’t ever see him. Who is William?” I turned pale, and my heart almost jumped out of my chest. William was my father’s name.
“Is William a scary man?” Cindy asked, mistaking my silence for fear.
It wasn’t fear, it was confusion. “No, Grandma won’t make friends with bad guys,” I said. “Come on, let’s make our cupcakes and eat them!”
The next day, I left Cindy and Dean, my husband, at home — they had planned an elaborate movie marathon, and I was instructed to make all the snacks before I went.
Then, I went to my mother’s house.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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