‘She’s not back yet,’ my daughter, Nico, says with brows that furrow deeper day by day.
‘There are no planes to get her back,’ I reply. ‘You need to SORT this out,’ she retorts. My mission is clear. I’ve been tasked by my five-year-old to bring my mother, her ‘por por’ (grandma), home. The proximity of a willing grandparent is something I’ve taken for granted shamelessly since I gave birth. Until now, that is.
