Nana June always noticed.
She was my father’s mother, but she had never shared his habit of confusing volume with authority.
She was small, sharp-eyed, and impossible to intimidate.
She wore cardigans even in warm weather and drank tea from a chipped blue mug she refused to
replace.
She had spent decades building her financial security through work, careful saving, and investments she understood far better than anyone in the family realized.
She didn’t talk much about money.
She talked about choices.
“Money gives you room to make choices,” she told me once. “But it doesn’t make the choices for you.”
I was sitting in her kitchen, still wearing my uniform after a long drive.
She poured another cup of tea.
“What are you building, sweetheart?”
I smiled.
“A career, hopefully.”
“I know that. Tell me about it.”
So I did.
I told her about an assignment that had kept me working late for weeks.
