Page 27 of Breaking Through

The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time. I answered, and Mom's worried face filled the screen. "Holden, sweetheart. We've been trying to reach you. The facility in Milwaukee has an opening, and we've started the paperwork..."

I heard Dad shuffling actual papers behind her, probably printouts of spreadsheets comparing care facilities or cost analyses of home healthcare versus institutional care. They'd reduced Grandpa's life—his stories, connection to Blue Harbor, and gentle philosophy about timing and waves—to numbers in columns.

I looked over at him while Mom detailed their plans. He'd closed his eyes, but his finger tapped against his armrest, letting me know he was listening to everything. The oxygen machine hummed, but it couldn't drown out Mom's voice as she outlined how they'd already arranged everything.

Her voice faded when I ended the call, but her words echoed in the quiet house. "We've already arranged everything."Like Grandpa's life—our lives—were just items on a checklist waiting to be marked off.

"Well." He opened his eyes. "That was about as much fun as the time your grandmother tried to teach the minister's wife watercolor. Poor woman kept painting everything brown."

I moved to help him up, my hands steady even though my insides felt like lake water stirred up by a storm. "I seem to remember that story ending with the minister's wife becoming an amazing sculptor instead."

"Found her own path." He gripped my arm as he rose, his hand still strong even if his balance wavered. "Much to Belle's delight. She always said art finds its proper medium, just like people find their proper place."

The oxygen tube tangled as he turned. I untangled it with the practiced ease of months of caregiving, noting how the simple movement had left him slightly breathless. Still, his eyesremained bright, watching me with that particular mix of love and concern that parents probably spent years perfecting.

"They mean well." We slowly made our way down the hall. The house creaked around us.

I agreed. "They mean to help." I steadied him as he navigated the turn into his bedroom. "But they're helping from thousands of miles away, making decisions about your life—our lives—based on numbers on a page."

"Numbers have their place." He sat heavily on the bed's edge while I checked his oxygen levels. "But they don't tell the whole story, do they? Like that gauge there—it measures oxygen, but not how it feels to breathe the air coming off the lake at sunrise."

I adjusted his pillows, making sure the tubes wouldn't kink during the night. "Or how the light hits the water just right some mornings, making everything look like it's made of gold."

"Or how certain ranger trucks always seem to be parked at the best spots for watching that light." His eyes twinkled despite his fatigue.

"Grandpa..."

"What? I may be old, but I'm not blind." He caught my hand as I fussed with his blanket. "Match, do you remember what Belle used to say about restoration?"

"Which part? She had opinions about everything."

"About how you can't restore something to what it was before." He settled back against the pillows. "How the point isn't to erase the damage but to find beauty in the healing."

Understanding bloomed warmly in my chest. "Like Wade's sketches of the fire. They're not just about the trauma; they're about surviving it."

"Exactly." His voice softened. "Some things crack us open, but that's how the light gets in. Belle understood that. I think you do, too."

I checked his water glass and made sure his phone was charging within reach. Each small task carried more meaning than usual. "I'm not letting them take you to Milwaukee."

"No." He smiled, looking suddenly more like himself than he had in weeks. "You're not. Now go on—I can hear your grandmother's studio calling. She always did her best thinking in there after difficult conversations."

"You sure you'll be okay?"

"I've got my oxygen, my crossword, and a house full of memories keeping watch." He shooed me toward the door. "Go find whatever it is you're looking for in those journals of hers. Just remember—"

"I know, I know. Call if you need anything."

"Actually, I was going to say remember that art isn't the only thing worth preserving." He gave me a meaningful look. "Sometimes the most important restorations have nothing to do with paint and canvas."

I paused in the doorway, watching him settle in with his puzzle book. The oxygen machine hummed its steady rhythm, but it wasn't the sound of illness anymore. It was the sound of home, of choices made and lines drawn in the sand.

"Love you, Grandpa."

"Love you too, Match."

A few minutes later, I returned to Gran's studio. The moon painted silver stripes across her easel, and the night air carried the scent of pine through the open window. At the bottom of the metal box, I found a loose page in Gran's handwriting:

Some things are worth preserving, no matter how damaged they might seem. The trick is knowing which ones will flourish with care and which ones must be let go. The heart usually knows the difference, even when the head argues otherwise.

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