I hadn’t planned on staying that long. I’d just brought my grandma in for some tests, and we were supposed to be out by noon. But then the lab was backed up, her pressure dipped a little, and before I knew it, we were on hour five in the waiting room.

She got cold, even though it wasn’t cold in there. I wrapped my jacket around her legs and offered to get her water. She didn’t answer—just leaned over and curled herself against me like she used to when I was a kid afraid of thunderstorms.

I nodded, but I didn’t say anything. Because what I hadn’t told anyone yet—not even my sister—was that lately, she didn’t always remember who I was.

Earlier that morning, she called me “Teddy.” That was my grandfather, who’d passed away almost 15 years ago. Then, when we pulled up to the clinic, she called me “Coach.” I never played sports a day in my life.

But right there in that chair, with the cheap overhead lights and the Christmas tree blinking in the corner, she wrapped both arms around my chest and whispered, “Don’t leave me again.”

I just held her tighter. I didn’t correct her.

The thing is, she looked calm for the first time in days. Like she finally felt safe.

I didn’t have the heart to ask what she meant by “again.”

The tests came back inconclusive that day. They wanted to keep her overnight for observation. Grandma got agitated when they said that, pulling at the sheets and muttering about needing to get home to water her plants. I stayed with her, of course. Slept in the uncomfortable chair next to her bed, waking up every few hours to make sure she hadn’t tried to get up on her own. The next morning, she was a little more lucid. She looked at me, her eyes clear for a moment, and said, “Thank you, Liam. You’re a good grandson.”