Mom knocked on my door after school and told me we were having dinner at 6. We always ate dinner, but when we had dinner, that meant at the table. With napkins and an important conversation.

“Who died?” I asked when I sat down.

“That’s not funny,” Mom said. “Grandpa.”

Gracie Lyle is an emerging writer from Brooklyn, NY. Her work has appeared in Elegant Literature. You can find her online at @gracielyle.bsky.social.