I explained how difficult it could be to help someone navigate a system they didn’t understand.
I talked about the responsibility of giving people accurate advice when their livelihoods or careers might depend on it.
She listened.
Not politely.
Not while waiting for her turn to speak.
She actually listened.
When I finished, she asked questions.
What happened next?
What had I learned?
Was I proud of the work?
Nobody else in my family had ever asked me the last question.
I remember looking at her over the rim of that blue mug.
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Sometimes I worry I’m not doing enough.”
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Then you’re probably taking it seriously.”
That was Nana.
She never needed me to be extraordinary.
She just wanted to know who I was becoming.
As the years passed, she remembered every birthday my parents forgot.
