Wednesdays

The first Wednesday, I almost corrected him. "Laura, sweetheart, it's grandpa. Are you coming on Sunday?" My name isn't Laura. I said I'd try.

From then on he called every Wednesday at seven. He asked about exams I don't take, a boyfriend who doesn't exist, whether I was eating well. I passed everything, his name was Dani, yes, grandpa, vegetables almost every day. He told me about the vegetable garden, the rain, how quiet the house had gone since grandma. He always hung up the same way: "I won't keep you any longer, sweetheart."

Yesterday was Wednesday and the phone didn't ring. I waited until ten, staring at the screen the way you stare at a door.

Today I dialled. A young voice answered, broken, with the noise of many people behind it.

"Laura?" I asked.

A silence.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Your grandfather was very proud of you," I said.

And it was true. Though I'll never know which of the two of us he meant.