Chapter 25 - The emergency phone moves with us
I almost threw away the black emergency phone.
Emma objected.
“That calls Grandpa.”
“Yes.”
“So keep.”
At six years old, logic was direct.
We moved it.
But the meaning changed.
The red button no longer existed because I believed my husband might take my smartphone.
It became:
Grandpa button.
Emma used it twice.
Once because I was in the shower and she wanted to know whether Dad was bringing pizza.
Once because she lost a tooth and believed this information required immediate multigenerational distribution.
Dad answered both.
No police.
No emergency.
That was healing.
The two-finger signal faded too.
One afternoon Emma made the gesture across the grocery store.
My body went rigid.
Then she pointed at two boxes of cereal.
“I want two.”
May you like
I laughed so hard another shopper stared.
Trauma loses power in strange ways.
