She looks at her grandmother, laying on the cheap mattress. The tubes and IVs make the elder woman look even sicklier than she would if she were in her own bed.
   "I hope you get better, Nana," the girl, about fourteen-years-old, says. She doesn't know what else to say; it's not like she is close to this woman.
   "Has no one told her?" the grandmother asks, looking at her son, the younger girl's father. The elder then looks to her grandmother. "I'm not getting better."
   The woman has pancreatic cancer, and, somewhere in the back of her mind, the girl knows her grandmother is dying. Everyone goes silent. The elder might not have been in her life much, but she is still the fourteen-year-old's grandmother, and to some extent, she loves her. To a teenager who has not dealt with losing a grandparent yet, hearing one tell her that they are dying is unsettling. She begins to tear up, but she remains calm. Crying now would only upset everyone in the cramped, sterile room.
   As they leave, the girl avoids eye contact with her father. She saw him cry a few years ago when his grandfather passed away. But her father most likely has conflicted feelings about his mother, the woman who neglected him. There might have even been physical abuse, for all she knew. The girl's unsure if he's crying now, or if he ever will. But to make things easier for her, and probably him as well, she avoids eye contact with him. During the car ride home, she manages to keep the tears under control.
   Days or weeks pass, no one keeps track of the time. But it's the Monday after Mother's Day, either 2006 or 2007, that the girl's father calls her. He's at work, and she's at home. His voice remains calm, and she takes the news well. When they hang up, she bursts into tears. With her mother there, and the small children that attend her mother's daycare, the tears go away fast. Quicker than she would have expected, given that her grandmother has just passed away. It surprises her, and at first, it bothers her. She shouldn't be laughing or smiling as the kids try to cheer her up.
   She wonders how her father is taking it. He cried for his grandfather. Would he cry for his negligent mother? She doesn't know. And she won't see him until Thursday, when he returns home a week of work in Connecticut. It's probably easier for him that she doesn't see whatever reaction he has. But going through the loss of one's mother isn't something to do alone. He should at least be with his sisters, who suffered the same childhood and yet have different views of their mother.
   The fourteen-year-old may never know how her father took the news, nor will she ever know exactly what kind of childhood he had. But with this, she gains new perspective on her own life.