Her grandson Lucas turned five in September, in the garden behind her daughter's house in Columbus , the one with the old oak at the end of the lawn and the wooden swing that had been there since Sofie was small.
There were eleven children. There were games: a sack race, musical chairs on the grass, a running game that Sylvia couldn't quite follow but which involved a lot of shrieking and direction changes. Lucas was at the centre of all of it.
Sylvia sat in a garden chair by the table and watched.
She had not planned to sit down. She had planned to be in the middle of it, the way she always had been, the grandmother who got down on the grass, who joined the sack race, who made herself ridiculous in the best possible way. She had been that person at every birthday before this one.
But the morning had been tiring. The drive. The carrying things in. The stairs in Sofie's house. And somewhere between arriving and watching the games begin, she had lowered herself into the chair and not got back up.
It was not dramatic. No one noticed. Sofie was organising the musical chairs; her husband James was in charge of the sack race; the other parents were standing in small groups talking. Sylvia sat and watched and held her cup of coffee with both hands because the September morning was cool and her fingers were cold.
They were always cold now. That was the thing she had stopped mentioning. Her fingers, her feet , cold even in summer, cold in ways she had never been cold before the blood pressure diagnosis.
Lucas ran past her. He glanced over without stopping and gave her the tiny wave that children give when they are too busy being thrilled to properly acknowledge anyone.
She waved back and felt something that she did not have a good word for. Not sadness. Something more complicated than sadness. The feeling of watching someone at full speed from the wrong side of a glass.
I should be in there. I want to be in there.
She tightened her hands around the coffee cup and did not move.