Sunday Calls

My grandma still thinks I'm dating him. I haven't had the heart to tell her.

His name was Daniel. He came to Sunday lunch with me four times. He ate her biryani like it was a religion. He called her "Nani" before she asked him to. She loved him more than she loved most of our family.

We broke up in the spring. A tired, tangled, nobody-wins ending. I told my mum, my friends, and my therapist. I didn't tell my grandma. She's eighty-three. She'd cry. She'd say "but he was so polite."

So every Sunday on the phone, when she asks, "How's Daniel?" I say, "Busy with work, Nani."

I've been saying it for six months. I'm a monster.

Last Sunday, she was in a strange mood. Quiet. Humming. When I called, she said, "I got a card from Daniel."

I almost dropped my tea. "What?"

"For my birthday. A little card. He wrote, 'Happy birthday, Nani. I hope you're eating well.' And a pressed flower. A daisy."

My throat went tight. "He... sent you a card?"

"He calls me every other Sunday," she said. "After you hang up with me. He asks if I took my tablets."

Silence on the line.

"He told me not to tell you," she said gently. "He said it would hurt you more."

I sat there, tea cooling, phone shaking.

I'd been lying to protect her.

He'd been loving her to protect me.