A Video Call with Grandma

When Rosa’s family gave her a tablet for her seventy-fifth birthday, she thanked them with perfect politeness and put it away in a drawer. The most advanced gadget she had ever owned was a basic mobile phone, and the idea of pressing the wrong button and breaking something expensive made her uneasy. Her grandson Lucas, who lived three hours away by train, understood the hesitation and decided not to press her.

Three weeks later a message arrived: “I think I am ready.” On Sunday afternoon they began a video call, but all Lucas could see was a black rectangle. Rather than guess, he asked Rosa to describe exactly what appeared on her side of the screen. She mentioned, almost in passing, that there was a small picture of her own face in the corner, and that detail turned out to be the clue they needed.

“Grandma, look along the top edge of the tablet,” Lucas said. After a minute of squinting, she discovered a thin transparent sticker covering the camera. “The shop must have forgotten to remove it,” she said, peeling it off with a fingernail. The picture sprang to life, and Lucas, who had been bracing himself for a much longer search, laughed with relief.

A second problem followed at once: Rosa could see her grandson but could not hear a word he said. Lucas explained where the volume buttons were, and she pressed the wrong one twice before finding the right one. Nobody minded. By then the call had stopped being a technical exercise and had become the best part of both their weekends, with mistakes that were funnier than frustrating.

Before saying goodbye, Rosa copied the steps onto a card in large letters and propped it against the tablet, as though it were a recipe she did not intend to forget. Then she asked, a little shyly, whether they might do this every Sunday. Lucas agreed before she had finished the question. What had started out as an awkward obstacle had become a family habit.