“You love her, don’t you?”

I looked up from the leather jacket in my hands, my eyes widening in surprise. My grandmother stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing a faded housedress and shower shoes, her hair still in neat, freshly-washed curls from her trip to the hairdresser earlier today. She seemed hesitant as she looked me over, but her eyes were clear.

“Shalom, Bubeleh,” I greeted her affectionately, giving her a smile as I stood and crossed to her. “Come sit with me?”

She nodded, a soft smile taking over her face. She set her hands in mine, letting me slowly lead her to the kitchen table. I settled her in the seat next to mine, then crossed to get a tea cup from the cabinet. I poured her a cup of the strong black tea I’d brewed a few minutes ago, adding a drop of milk and half a lump of sugar, just like she liked it. Then I sat, setting the jacket aside and giving her my full attention.

“You love her.” She sounded more certain this time, nodding her head softly. She reached out a gnarled, age-spotted hand, giving mine a weak squeeze.

“What are you talking about, now?” I asked, though I was half-afraid of her answer.

She cupped my cheeks, firmly holding my gaze, just like she used to when I was younger, when she thought I was lying about who broke the lamp in the TV room, or what had become of the last latke. Every time, she already knew the truth, but she wanted me to tell her anyway. She wanted to know that I’d learned the lessons of truthfulness and responsibility she’d endeavored to teach me.

I’d learned them, all right. A little too well, I sometimes thought. But I’d learned them.

“Your shiksa, of course,” she replied, an impish smile lighting up her dark eyes. “The pretty girl.”

Sabine. Just my luck that Bubbe had remembered her after just a few confusing, distressing minutes in her presence. My grandmother, whose mind was a time-jumping warren of half-remembered names and faces, could recall with seemingly perfect clarity the woman I was trying my hardest to forget.

“What makes you say that?” I asked lightly, like this conversation wasn’t quietly killing me.

She tsked, giving me a guilt-inducing frown. “Please, bubala. You are sad.” She took a sip of her tea, humming in satisfaction. “You used to walk around this house whistling horribly.”

I chuckled, because that was true. I had absolutely no musical talent, and I couldn’t carry a tune if it had handles. It was something I’d inherited from my father, apparently. Bubbe used to have me in stitches, telling me the story of the time he’d tried to enter the school talent contest when he was in the fifth grade. He’d come in last place, and family legend had it that his teacher had said they would have voted him lower if they could.

“Now you just mope around like a schlemiel. It’s not good,” she continued, shaking her head. Then she turned guilty eyes to me. “I know you think I don’t like her.”

I froze, because we were headed into dangerous territory. I hadn’t even allowed myself to hope that Bubbe had been able to form an opinion on Sabine one way or the other. But if she had? I was too afraid to know the verdict. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted her approval, or her disdain.

“Do you?” I asked carefully, trying not to stress her out by sounding too anxious.

She shook her head, and my heart sank. Oh, God, she hated her. She hated the woman I loved.

Oh, I still loved her. She’d broken my heart. She’d rejected me – had walked out on me even though I’d literally begged her not to – and I still loved her. I loved her more than I loved air. More than I’d ever loved another living creature. She was my forever love, the one woman I wanted to build my life with, I’d given her everything I had, wrapped my heart up in a pretty package for her.

And she’d stomped on it.

Still, I’d been listless, irritable, and just generally miserable without her these last few weeks. I’d even snapped at Bubbe last week when she’d asked me to get her a serving platter that had broken when I was twelve. It had taken hours to soothe her, and I’d felt horrible for days afterward.

But I was going out of my mind with missing Sabine.

I knew she’d pushed me away because she was scared, and while my pride still felt wounded, it was nothing if she would just love me. I knew I could take away her fears, could get her to trust in the love we shared, make her see that it was enough to get us through even the roughest storms. If I could just convince her to try.

And in the weeks since she’d walked out, that had become an increasingly bigger ‘if,’ until now it seemed like an almost certain ‘no.’ I’d picked up the phone to call her a hundred times, had gotten in the car with the intention of going to her apartment nearly every day. But the doubt always stopped me.

I sighed, taking a sip of my tea to try to cover it. “That’s okay,” I said, giving Bubbe a sad smile. “I don’t think we’re going to get back together.”

She tsked again, shaking her head more vehemently. “No, no, no, bubala.” She wrung her hands, a sure sign that she was getting agitated, and I cursed under my breath. I reached my hands out, covering her small, frail ones with mine. She took a few wheezy breaths, closing her eyes. “I mean, I do like her,” she finally said, sounding much calmer.

I stiffened. She did? “Really?”

She nodded, smiling. “You should marry her. You’ll have lots of babies. She has birthing hips.”

I barked out a surprised laugh. “I’ll think about it, Bubeleh,” I said, because I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“She’ll have to convert, of course,” she said, now talking more to herself than me. She yawned, and I realized it was getting close to bedtime.

The nurse on duty, Della, must have realized it, too, because she appeared in the doorway, giving Bubbe a patient smile.

“Time for bed, Naomi,” she said in a calm, cheerful voice.

My grandmother nodded. “Okay,” she agreed easily. She looked around the clean, empty kitchen. “Where is Ruth?”

I cleared my throat. “She’s in the backyard,” I said. “Hunting spiders. She’ll be along soon.”

“Okay.” Bubbe nodded absently, following Della to the doorway.

I closed my eyes briefly against a wave of sadness. She asked about her cat every day, several times a day, and every time the white lies burned my throat on the way out. But I couldn’t tell her Ruth had died. I didn’t have the strength to break my grandmother’s heart anew, over and over.

Bubbe stopped just before she disappeared in the hallway, looking back at me with a stern expression that I knew so well.

“I mean it, Benjamin,” she said, and my heart sank. “You should marry that shiksa.” She turned, heading for her bedroom, and her soft voice carried down the hallway, echoing off the saltillo tiles with quiet devastation. “You’d make such pretty babies.”