MY SEVEN-YEAR-OLD GRANDDAUGHTER CLUTCHED MY HAND AND WHISPERED, “GRANDPA… MOM PUTS SOMETHING IN MY JUICE.” I THOUGHT IT WAS JUST A CHILD’S FEAR—UNTIL A MEMPHIS DOCTOR READ HER TESTS, FROZE, AND WENT SILENT FOR FOUR LONG SECONDS.

That had been eating at me in a way only grandparents understand. Parents think in terms of duty. Grandparents think in terms of memory. We live long enough to know that a child doesn’t remember every present or every slice of cake, but she remembers who looked for her, who showed up, who kept their promises.

Ruby had turned seven on Friday, October 11th. I had planned to be there in a pressed blue shirt with a ridiculous oversized gift bag and enough energy to sit through a princess tea party if that was what was required.

Instead, I spent the week flat on my back with my right knee swollen to the size of a cantaloupe.

Old football injury, newer arthritis, and a stubborn streak that had carried me through six decades but hadn’t yet figured out that joints don’t care about your pride. By the time I could drive without cursing every red light, the party was over, the photos were online, and my granddaughter was officially seven years old without me in the room.

So Tuesday afternoon I dressed anyway.

Button-down shirt. Clean jeans. My decent boots.