The very idea of the formidable Judge Julita Slaski-Davis being afraid of anything—let alone something as pedestrian as being alone is jaw-dropping. I love my mom—I admire her—I resent her—I am intimidated by her—I’m so many things about and toward her, but one thing I’ve not often been is surprised by her, and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt sorry for her before.

“Maybe it’s time to call Dad—”

“I am not asking him to come home.”

“He’d understand, Mom. He’d come right away if you asked him to.”

“I am not you, Alice Slaski-Davis,” she hisses at me, predictably resorting to my full name as if I’m a child, also predictably refusing to acknowledge that I took Wade’s surname without so much as a hyphen! Mom is nothing if not consistent; she was horrified with that decision ten years ago, and apparently it still smarts today. “I do not and will not rely on a man to get me through this. It is—”

“Listen,” I interrupt her, because I know we’re about to start the whole Alice-is-a-bad-feminist argument again and it never ends well—or at all, actually. “I don’t want to argue with you about Dad.” Or Wade. Or my surname. Or my mind-boggling ability to survive without a career. “I just want you to understand why I want to do this for her. She’s given me real places, real names...” At least, I seriously hope so. “I’m just going to go to Poland and take some photos for her, maybe FaceTime her once or twice if the time zones line up okay. I don’t really understand why this matters so much to her, but clearly it does and God only knows how much time she has left.”

“What on earth do you think you’re going to achieve? Who travels halfway across the globe to take some photos? It’s a fool’s errand.”

“Well,” I say quietly, thinking of Callie’s comments about Wade in the car this morning. “Let me find that out the hard way.”

I pack Eddie up after that and kiss Babcia on the cheek.

Today is Saturday. I tell her, via the iPad. Alice home tomorrow. Alice plane Poland Monday. She looks at me, and her brow furrows with confusion.

“See?” Mom says bitterly. She’s sitting in the corner with her arms crossed over her chest. “I told you we need a translator.”

I look at the iPad, and for a moment or two I can’t figure out what’s confusing Babcia. She knows the symbols for today and Alice and home and plane and she had no trouble at all finding the flag that means Poland.

It’s the days. The titles are in English, so she can only use the icons she creates herself and the ones she already knows. A sudden thought strikes me and I hit the settings on the iPad.

Polski.

I change languages, and move back to the icon screen. Babcia looks again, and she grins at me and nods. She takes the iPad and I wait as she plays with the device for several minutes. She takes a selfie, grimaces, deletes it and repeats this process several times until she’s apparently happy with the result. Finally, the device reads me a string of robotic Polish. I look at the icons, and find she’s created a new icon and adorned it with a selfie of herself midsmile, and she’s wedged that around grinning clip art faces. I flick the iPad back to English and reread it.

Babcia happy. Babcia proud.

Five minutes later, Mom, the head nurse and Babcia all know how to use the AAC as an inelegant translator. I take Babcia’s precious letter and snap a series of photos, trying to catch it in just the right light so that Zofia-the-Polish-tour-guide has a chance of translating it.

“Okay, I’m going now,” I say, pointing toward the door. Babcia beams. Mom stares at me impassively. “I won’t be in tomorrow, I have to get things ready for the kids. But I’ll be home in six days, and I’ll try to keep in touch via phone and text messages.”

Mom is still giving me that expressionless stare. I sigh and kiss Babcia, and then I walk around her bed, and I bend to kiss Mom’s cheek too. At the last second, Mom catches my forearm in her hand, then she stands and kisses my cheek in return.

“Good luck,” she says stiffly. I thank her, but then bolt out the door before she can add the inevitable you’re going to need it and spoil the gentle buzz her farewell has given me. Once Eddie and I are in the car, I grit my teeth and dial Dad.

“Ally,” he greets me warmly. “How are things? How’s your grandmother?”

“Not good, Dad,” I admit. “Has Mom told you she can’t speak?”

“She did. And your mom seems to think the hospital is dropping the ball.”

“Yeah, I know...”

“But you think Mom is being a hard-ass, like she always is.”

I laugh weakly. I seriously love my Dad, especially the oh-so-chill retirement version of him.

“I kind of do. But, Dad—I actually think Mom needs you. I know she doesn’t want to ask you to come home, but I think you need to. Babcia has asked me to go to Poland, and I’m going to go, so Mom is going to be alone—”

“Just back up a bit there, love,” Dad says patiently. “What’s this about you going to Poland?”

“It’s complicated,” I mutter. “Babcia asked me to go and I’m still not sure why, but I’m going anyway.”

“Well, that’s unexpected. How fun for you.”

I laugh at the ease of Dad’s acceptance of my crazy quest.

“This is almost exactly the opposite of how the conversation with Mom went when I told her,” I tell him. “She’s stressed out of her mind—between her work and visiting Babcia at the hospital—I’m a bit worried how she’ll cope if anything happens with Babcia while I’m away. Can you come?”

“Of course I can,” Dad says, and he sighs heavily. “If she’d asked, I’d have come right home when Babcia got sick. You know that, right?”

“I do, Dad.” I sigh too. “I really do.”

“Well, when are you shifting gears from stay-at-home mom to international jet-setter?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” I say, then I swallow.

“I guess I won’t see you until you get back,” Dad says. “Do me a favor, Alice, and bring me back some vodka. Good stuff—as strong as possible. I think I’m going to need it to deal with your mom when Babcia finally goes.”

“I can’t even think about that yet,” I admit.

“Well, my darling daughter, I won the mother-in-law lottery when I met your mother, so I hate to say this—but Babcia is ninety-five years old. Sooner or later, we’re all going to have to let her go.”