Maybe it was my quiet way of clinging to a single thread of the past when we were a real family. A faint creak from the back of the apartment signaled that Jace, my youngest grandson, was awake.
At fourteen, he was already taller than I was, with lanky limbs and tangled dark hair. His eyes were perpetually hidden behind long bangs and oversized headphones.
I told him good morning and said that waffles would be ready in fifteen minutes. He merely nodded without bothering to remove his headphones and slumped into a kitchen chair with his tablet glowing in front of him.
I had stopped taking his behavior personally a long time ago. At least he did not snap at me the way his older sister, Skyler, sometimes did.
But deep down, I knew Jace saw everything. He understood the unspoken tension better than any of us.
Skyler’s voice sliced through the morning calm as she strode into the kitchen, already dressed and perfectly made up. She asked if I had seen her blue sweater.
At seventeen, she was a beautiful echo of her mother. She had high cheekbones, a sharp nose, and rich chestnut hair.