“‘Dinner’s Off,’ She Told Me — But I Walked In and Saw Them Laughing at the Table.”

The Cancelled Dinner

The text came through at 5:47 p.m. just as I was pulling my old Buick out of the driveway.

“Grandpa, so sorry, dinner’s canceled tonight. Sarah’s got the flu. Rain check. Love you.”

I stared at my phone, reading Emma’s message twice. My granddaughter was usually so reliable about these Sunday dinners.

They had been ever since her mother, my daughter Clara, passed three years ago.

I’d already showered, put on my good cardigan, and wrapped up the apple pie I’d spent all afternoon making.

It was the one with the lattice crust that Emma loved, just like her grandmother used to make.

“Well, hell,” I muttered, turning the key back in the ignition. The engine died with a sputter.

I sat there for a moment, looking at the pie on my passenger seat. My stomach growled.

I’d skipped lunch in anticipation of Emma’s pot roast.

At seventy-six years old, I’d learned that disappointment was just part of life’s menu, but that didn’t make it taste any better.

Then I remembered I’d left my blood pressure medication at Emma’s house last Sunday.

Dr. Patel had been very clear about taking it twice daily.

“Frank,” I said to myself, using the same tone my late wife Margaret would have used on me. “You need that medicine.”

I turned the key again. The Buick coughed back to life.

Emma’s house was only twelve minutes away in the newer subdivision off Maple Street. I’d make it quick.

I would grab the pills from her medicine cabinet where she kept them for me.

Maybe I would leave the pie as a surprise for when little Sarah felt better. I wouldn’t bother them; in and out.