Chapter 3

The edges of the paper were frayed, as if it had been handled a thousand times.

I remembered how, three months before Grandpa passed away, he'd sit alone in his study with a few sheets of paper spread out on the desk. When I asked what he was writing, he just said, "Family accounts."

It was winter, and the heat in the study never really worked. He had hand warmers taped to his hands and would pause every so often to warm them up.

I kept reading.

"I've kept track of every time they've asked me for money over the years. Your Uncle George has come to me eight times, always asking for 35 thousand or 65 thousand dollars at a time. Your Uncle Robert is even more relentless—eleven times, always claiming he needs it to tide him over, but he never pays me back. Your Uncle Thomas isn't as bad; he asks for less, but he's still hit me up six times."

Hearing that, Uncle Thomas's face turned red, and he lowered his head.

"And that kid William, ever since college, he's always asking for 35 thousand or 65 thousand dollars. Says it's for a car, an investment, or a house. When I ask where the money went, he claims his business failed. Failed, my foot—he just wasted it all on booze and cards." I continued.

William's face went ghostly pale. He tried to stand up and defend himself, but couldn't find the words, so he just sat back down. The people next to him scooted away, putting some distance between themselves and him.

Someone whispered, "How does the old man keep track of everything so well?"

"Clara, I might be old, but I'm not blind. I can tell who really cares about me and who's just after my money." I kept reading.

Uncle George swallowed hard, picked up his coffee cup, but didn't take a sip before setting it back down. The coffee sloshed, and a few drops splashed onto the table.

I flipped to the second page.

"Do you remember that summer when you were sixteen, and I taught you how to play on the folding chessboard? You always wanted to snatch your opponent's rook in a single move, but I told you, 'Don't rush. Make sure you know where every piece stands first.'"

My fingers clenched the letter.

That summer was ten years ago.

The courtyard at Elderberry Lane was so hot, the concrete felt like it could scorch one's feet.

Grandpa had set up a folding table under the shade, with an old wooden folding chessboard on top. The paint was chipped, and the corners were polished smooth from years of play.

The electric fan swung back and forth, but all it managed was to push around hot air.

Grandpa, in a faded undershirt, held a black piece from the chessboard, hovering it above the board for ages.

That day, I'd just finished my dad's funeral. I rode the bus back alone, the smell of burnt paper from the ceremony still clinging to my hair.

When I got to the old house, Aunt Margaret was waiting at the door. "Come in, Grandpa's been waiting for you," she said, then went straight upstairs to play bridge.

Upstairs, laughter burst out again and again, mixed with the sharp clack.

The sound of shuffling and loud voices drifted down from the second floor.

Someone shouted, "I won!" and another yelled, "Me too!" Right after, there was the noisy clapping.

Grandpa was sitting alone under the tree's shade.

There were two glasses of water on the table, one meant for me.

The water had gone cold. Condensation clung to the outside of the glass, like it had been waiting there for ages.

"Come, join me for a game," he said.

I sat opposite Grandpa and grabbed the black side of the folding chessboard.

We played for two hours. At first, I was impatient, always trying to capture his rook piece, but Grandpa always had a way to block me.

"See this?" Grandpa said. "Right now, it looks pretty useless just sitting there. But if you move that piece, suddenly it's got a clear shot at me."

He tapped the folding chessboard, drumming his fingers twice on that piece, making a soft, almost playful sound.

I stared at the board, still confused. They seemed totally unrelated.

"Don't believe me?" Grandpa smiled. "Try it and see for yourself."

I moved my horse forward. Instantly, the line opened up.

"That's what strategy is all about," Grandpa said. "Sometimes, you don't move to take a piece. You move to stake your claim on the board."

He picked up the black piece, then set it back down.

"Clara, every piece on the folding chessboard has its place. Some pieces look strong, but they're just useless. Others seem quiet, but they can decide victory or defeat. Make sure you understand everything before you make your move," he said to me.

Back then, I didn't really understand. I sat there, frowning at the folding chessboard, hesitating for ages before finally making a move.

Grandpa just sat across from me, never rushing. He'd pour me a glass of water and quietly wait for me to figure things out.

In the end, I lost that game. As Grandpa was packing up the pieces, he said, "Losing's no big deal, just make sure you see where you messed up."

Someone upstairs called out, "Dad, we're out of coffee."

Grandpa didn't move. He just stared at the folding chessboard, as if he didn't hear a thing.

Someone else called out, "Dad, is there any watermelon left in the fridge?"

Grandpa still didn't budge. He picked up the black piece, spun it between his fingers, then placed it back on the board.