“Grandpa,” she said carefully, “is it supposed to pull my face back like this?”
June leaned around her. “She looks surprised.”
May giggled into her cereal.
I sighed, untied the braid, and started again. “Nobody leaves this house looking surprised unless it’s picture day.”
“Is it supposed to pull my face back like this?”
***
That’s how most of those years went. I learned by messing up.
I fixed shelves, mowed lawns, and stocked hardware supplies.
When the power bill came high, I called it “an ambitious piece of paper.” Pancakes for dinner became “breakfast with confidence.”
The girls laughed, but they knew.
I learned by messing up.
***
One night, when they were seven, May stared at her worn sneakers while I stirred macaroni.
“Grandpa, are we poor?”
June pushed her taped glasses up. “We are. Just say it.”
“We’re temporarily underfunded,” I said.
“That means poor.”
