I let her come on a Saturday. Ben brought her.
She stood in the doorway of my parents’ living room in her good wool coat, and when she saw Evelyn sitting in her bouncy chair, now four months old, round-cheeked and gurgling, her copper hair sticking up like a little flame, Diane put her hand over her mouth.
She didn’t come in. She waited.
“Come on,” I said. “She won’t bite. She doesn’t have teeth yet.”
Diane walked in slowly and knelt down on the carpet in front of the bouncy chair. Her knees cracked. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Hello, Evelyn,” she whispered. “Hello, sweet girl. I’m your grandma.”
Evelyn looked at her. Then she shrieked with delight, for no reason at all, the way babies do. She kicked her legs and waved her arms and gave Diane a huge gummy smile.
Diane started crying so hard she had to sit down on the floor.
