I never thought my own grandchildren would be the reason I almost hid my body again.
At a certain age you assume some things stop hurting. You figure you’ve built up enough calluses after surviving a marriage, childbirth, loss, widowhood, money trouble, illness, funerals, and all the smaller humiliations life scatters along the way just to keep you humble. You don’t, though. Some things still find the softest part of you and press down hard.
This happened last summer, when the whole family rented a house near the water in Florida. My son Daniel had booked a place with plenty of room. His wife Megan packed enough snacks to survive a week-long power outage. My daughter Elise brought three suitcases for what was supposed to be a four-day trip. The grandkids showed up armed with phones, earbuds, opinions, and the kind of careless honesty only teenagers can get away with.
I’d bought myself a new swimsuit for the trip. A bikini. Nothing wild — navy blue, high-waisted bottoms, a halter top with a little white stitching along the edges. Tasteful, I thought. Cute, even. I bought it because I liked it, which isn’t something women my age get much encouragement to say out loud. We’re supposed to talk about comfort, support, coverage, what’s “appropriate” for a woman our age. But I liked it. I liked how it made me feel like I was still allowed to have a body, instead of just a history attached to one.
What Tyler and Ava Said in the Doorway
The night before our first beach day, I was folding clothes in my room when my youngest grandson, Tyler, wandered in looking for sunscreen. He spotted the swimsuit laid out on the bed.
He blinked. “Wait. You’re wearing that?”
I laughed. “That’s generally what one does with a swimsuit, yes.”
He gave me an awkward little smile, the kind kids give when they don’t want to be the one to say the uncomfortable part out loud. Then Ava, my oldest granddaughter, appeared behind him in the doorway. She looked at the bed, then at me.
