“He will fix it when I ask him,” I said.
Juan blew a layer of cedar dust off the seat of the chair. “He won’t.”
The kitchen smelled of the chamomile tea I had brewed to settle my stomach. I poured the hot water into my favorite blue mug, watching the steam rise toward the ceiling fan that hummed on its lowest setting.
A single twenty-dollar bill sat in the small wooden drawer by the telephone, folded in half just where I had left it on Monday morning. I had kept it there for the bread truck that stopped by once a week, but the driver had retired in April and no one had taken his route.
I sat at the oak table and pulled the old grey tablet from its charging cord. It was slower than my phone, and the screen had a thin crack across the lower corner, but it still held the email invitation Carlos had sent three summers ago when he first set up the family circle.
I remembered how proud he had been of the technology, explaining how we would all be connected in real time. He had set it up on Thanksgiving day, sitting right where I was sitting now, his smart watch blinking against his wrist.
“This way we don’t have to call four different people to plan Sunday dinner,” he had said.
But we had not had Sunday dinner together in eighteen months.
My hand was not steady as I opened the mail archive. I had to scroll past five weeks of pharmacy notifications and electric bills to find the blue link.
I clicked the invitation.
The screen flickered, showing the names of my children and grandchildren in a long vertical list. Sofia had posted a photo of her yellow labrador by the creek, and Laura had left a comment about the high school football schedule.
I tapped the green button at the bottom that said Join Group.
For four seconds, my name appeared in the list, sitting quietly between Diego and Sofia. I could see the little circle next to my initials turn green, showing I was connected to them.
