My grandma spent $30,000 to join our family’s Europe trip. But at the airport, my dad said, ‘I forgot your ticket—just go home.’ The way everyone avoided her eyes told me it wasn’t an accident. I stayed with her. Three weeks later, my parents came back—and the whole family froze, like they were holding their breath, when they saw me standing beside a man. Because…

My father left Tuloma as soon as he could. After college he took an engineering job in Greenville, married my mother, and built a life that looked good on paper—solid salary, a respectable house, a retirement plan.

Aunt Paula married a man named Leon Mallister, a wealthy real estate developer. They moved to Peachtree City, Georgia, where manicured lawns, golf carts on tree-lined paths, and perfectly planned neighborhoods replaced the cracked sidewalks and sagging porches of my grandmother’s town. Paula and Leon had two kids, Isabelle and James—my cousins, who I saw once or twice at Christmas and sometimes in staged photos my grandmother would proudly show me.

Both my father and Aunt Paula left Tuloma behind. They left my grandmother behind in that little wooden house with her marigolds and her memories.

They rarely visited. Maybe a quick stop on their way somewhere else, a rushed holiday call with forced laughter. The conversations were polite, framed in that brittle tone people use when they feel guilty but don’t want to admit it.