The tension between mom and grandma is thicker than the smell of eggs reheating in the microwave. I sit between them, watching as they avoid each other's eyes, their conversation stiff, laced with hidden barbs.

"That thing looks like it needs changing."

Grandma pushes her legs out, hiding her slippers under the table.

"It's fine the way it is."

"I'm just saying, mom. I'm a nurse. I can look at it for you."

She scoffs, not hiding anything at this point. The sunlight streaming through the window is warm, golden even, but the kitchen feels anything but cozy. I bite into my everything bagel.

"Alright fine, I'm sure Nora can handle it," Mom offers, but her voice has that edge, the one that says she's holding back a retort. She collects her eggs from the microwave and shoves a fork into them.

"No need. I'll manage. I always have," Grandma says, taking a cautious sip of her coffee. She hates it. 

"So, Grandma," I say, trying to lighten the mood. "Any plans for today?"

Grandma looks up, her sharp eyes softening for a moment when she looks at me. "I can't do much, can I?"

Mom presses her lips together. "You could come with me to the store later. I need to pick up a few things."

"Maybe," Grandma says, her tone neutral. She won't. Obviously.

"You're free today?" I turn my attention to mom.

"Yes. It's Sunday."

"But you were working yesterday?"

She sets her coffee down next to the coaster. It's not that difficult to use it.

"I was. Night shift."

"Oh okay, because I've been trying to contact you since I landed."

"And I apologize but I'm here now.," she gives a closed mouth smile. "Plus, I'm not really good with phones."

"It's not that hard to pick up a call, Laney," grandma interrupts.

I sigh quietly and glance between them, hoping for some sort of truce, but all I get is silence again. The peaceful morning I'd hoped for is slipping through my fingers, and it's not long before mom stands abruptly.

"I need the bathroom" she says, leaving her eggs on the table to get cold again.

Grandma watches her leave, eyes narrowed slightly, but says nothing. I want to help them fix this, to recover whatever they've lost, but I don't even know where to start.

Later, I find myself at the attic door, staring at the old wooden hatch above me. It's always been a little stiff, but I grab the metal pull string and give it a firm tug. The door creaks open slowly, almost as if it's protesting, and the musty smell of dust and time spills out. A shiver runs down my spine, but it's not fear. The attic has always been more of a curiosity than anything else, a place filled with forgotten things.

I reach up and grab the ladder, pulling it down until it unfolds with a groan. The air up here is stale, and I can already feel the thin layer of dust clinging to my skin. I step up, the wood creaking beneath my weight as I climb into the attic.

It's dim, the only light coming from a small, dirty window at the far end of the space. Boxes are stacked haphazardly, some old, some newer, all of them covered in the same thick layer of dust. I walk over to a pile near the far wall, my footsteps stirring the dust into tiny clouds. There's no way there are any batteries up here. And if they are, it's not worth digging for them. They'll be like needles in a haystack. God knows what's been shoved up here.

I kneel down and pull a box towards me. The cardboard is soft, fragile from years of being up here. I peel back the flaps carefully, not wanting to tear anything. Inside, there's a collection of yellowed photographs, brittle at the edges. I pick one up and study it-Grandma, younger, her hair in tight curls, standing beside a man I don't recognize.

Beneath the photos, there's a stack of old newspapers, the edges curling into themselves. As I shift them aside, something catches my eye. Tucked beneath the papers is a small urn. My fingers brush against the cool ceramic, and I freeze.

What is this?

I pick up the urn carefully, turning it over in my hands.

I carry it down with me, to the kitchen, calling out for grandma. Mom responds from the kitchen table, holding her second cup of coffee. "She's in the garden."

Her eyes wander down to the urn in my hands. She looks confused at first.

"Where did you find that?" she stands up, looking out the window, as if to check if grandma's still there.

"In the attic. Grandma said I'd find batteries there."

"Give me that," mom pulls the urn from me. 

"I looked inside," I tell her.

"Fucking hell, Nora."

"Those aren't ashes, right?" I ask, horror rising like bile in my throat. Who is she holding?

Grandad's in the cemetery. I saw the headstone myself. We don't burn bodies. We bury them. And sure, burying people isn't an easy thing to do but it's less morbid than incinerating them. Right?

"It was up there for a reason," she shoves past me. Just as I'm about to respond, grandma creaks open the backdoor.

"What's going on in there?"

"Nothing," mom disappears and heads upstairs. 

Grandma's making her way back into the kitchen, her slippers covered in mud. Her bandage is bloody. You can barely tell the blood apart from the soil.

"Shit grandma, your foot."

I change grandma's bandage because she won't let mom near her. I can feel her judgmental gaze on my back like hot infrared lasers. When I'm finally done, after a failed first attempt, I study my handiwork. It's alright. Should hold up well. I don't do this for a living. Mom does. But grandma couldn't care less about her being a nurse.

I reckon mom's still pissed at me for bringing down the urn. She's gone quiet like she usually does when she decides she's overstimulated. I get up to wash my hands in the kitchen sink. As I rub my hands dry with the kitchen towel, I lean against the counter, facing them.

"So," I clear my throat. "Are you going to tell me what that urn was?"

I sound aggravated. It isn't until the words leave my mouth that my frustration materializes. I am pissed. Mom's key ring hangs from her finger and I'm not ready for her to leave yet. Not with everything that's happened.

"Nora-" I hear the warning in her voice. A tone I'm all too familiar with. A cliff-hanger. Urgent. A covert warning. Tip-toe. Tip-toe. It's the voice I've paired most of my childhood memories to. Nora. This is your final warning.

"Is it what I think it is?" I ask more solemnly. 

I expect my heart beat to accelerate. For my skin to break into hives. To feel sweat on my palm and back. None of those things happen. I'm twenty seven. I know what I'm getting myself into and I'm fine with it. Growing up doesn't mean your parents lose their horns but they do become smaller... small enough to wrap your hand around them and realize they never drew blood.

Mom glances sideways at grandma, as if to check her reaction. Grandma gives nothing away. I can't tell what she's thinking. Whether she even knows about the urn.

"Nora-"

"Answer the question, mom."

Grandma speaks, her voice frail but cutting through the tension. "She never told you, did she?"

"Grandma, told me what?" I ask, my heart constricts in my chest.

"It's your brother," she says without looking at me.

"Brother?" The word feels foreign on my tongue. "I don't have a brother."

"I have to go," Mom cuts in, her voice shaking. She's not just defensive anymore- she's scared. I can see it in the way her hands curl into fists at her sides, the loud clanging of the keys as she gathers her things.

"You did have a brother. But your mother..." her voice trails off, leaving something heavy in the air.

"What happened to him?" I inch closer to mom but her back is turned to me. 

Mom takes a deep breath, leaning forward on the table. Her hand is wrapped around her purse's strap. The other, around her keychain. "He's gone, and that's all you need to know."

"Mom..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I deserve to know who my brother was. What happened to him..."

"He was older than you," grandma inserts. "He... passed before you were born."

I take in this new information. A brother. I had a sibling. A wave of grief collects itself. The way the water pools in and out before finally swallowing the shoreline. I watch my mom and the back of her shoulders trembling. I can't tell if she's crying or not.

"What was his name?" I ask more gently. Why wasn't he buried? Why did you hide him in the attic?

"His name was Jack," grandma answers for her.

Jack. 

It's a beautiful name but it floats in my mind, unassigned to a face or an age or to a hair color. I have so many questions. And I feel a heavy loss that doesn't feel like it belongs to me. Like I'm carrying it for my mom or grandma. People that actually knew him. But why the hell has nobody ever told me? Nobody ever thought to mention him? Even grandad?

Mom is out of the door, her purse swinging behind her. Shit. I follow close behind her down the hallway until she's at the front door, pushing her feet into her shoes. Her hair covers the side of her face. 

"Mom, are you seriously leaving?"

She whips her head back, her hair falling behind her shoulders. Her face is wet with tears and her mouth is pulled down into a scowl. "Fucking hell Nora. You wanted to come here to spend time with your grandmother, then spend it. Don't pull me into it."

"Can you stop acting so irrational for a minute."

This isn't about Jack anymore. Not entirely. This is about her shutting down whenever she gets the opportunity to. Her method of keeping her peace while recking everyone else's. 

"I have work tomorrow."

"I need to talk to you. It's important." I need to talk to you about grandma, her episode. There's so much I need to unpack.

I can sense grandma walk up behind me, stopping in the kitchen doorway. Mom wipes her tears with the back of her hand. 

"What?" she surrenders. But I can't speak freely while grandma listens. She's still in denial about her hallucinations.

"Can you come to my room? I need to talk to you in private."

I can see her hesitation. But she finally drops her hand from the door knob and turns, "Can't you just say it here?"

"No mom," I say in no more than a whisper. "It's kind of serious."

Mom sits at the foot of my bed, one leg folder under the other. One leg outstretched on the floor, as if ready to flee if the need arises. For a big bedroom, we look pretty cramped in here.

"Grandma's not well."

"I know."

"She hallucinates things. She had an episode last evening when I came back home. She locked her room and thought someone was in there with her."

Mom nods. She doesn't seem surprised at all.

"I've been dealing with it for a long time, Nora. Way before you arrived."

Dealing with it would insinuate medication. Some sort of intervention. But all I see is grandma left alone to deal with her brain fog.

"What happened to her?"

"I took her to the doctor, just around when dad died."

Any time grandad is brought up in conversation, I feel the pang of grief all over again. Slowly diminishing, like a closing wound, skin wrapping around itself to heal but never completely. But that's the thing. Nobody talks about him much. Not to me anyway. And that's a different type of grief entirely. To pretend he never existed at all.

"Okay and?"

"I thought it early signs of dementia or something. Her mother had Alzheimer's so I always suspected she'd get it eventually."

"Alzheimer's." I echo to myself.

"But they didn't diagnose her with that."

"So what's causing it?"

"When they eventually stopped, he chalked it down to stress."

I straighten myself up. "I don't think stress is doing this."

"It hasn't happened in a long time, Nora," she shrugs. "Maybe she's tired, the stitches could've stressed her out."

"Mom," I interrupt. "She was losing it before the stitches. She thinks someone is in the house. At first, she talked about him bumping into things and I didn't think it was a big deal. But yesterday, she threw a mega fit."

"Nora, I've seen what the elderly go through. Up close and so vividly. Dementia is a fucking nightmare to go through and whatever mom's going through, it isn't that."

"I still think she needs to get checked. We could get a second opinion."

Mom sighs and arches back a little, resting her elbows on the board. "Fine, I'll try looking someone up from the hospital."

"Good. It's really important that we do this."

Mom looks distant. I wonder if my words reached her at all.

"And about Jack- why didn't you ever tell me?"

My question pulls her back in, like a rope reeling her from a sweeping current. "Nora, I'm tired. I'm just so fucking exhausted."

Past the bright red lipstick and thick spider leg lashes, I know what she means. She isn't just tired because she's working awful hours, lives alone and has to battle traffic on her way back home. Mom's always been strung out but not like this. I've been so distracted by grandma and her health that I've neglected to understand that mom is getting older too.