At some point, Nana asked me about work.
I started to answer.
Dad interrupted.
“Mom, we’re talking about something important.”
Nana set down her fork.
“So am I.”
The room went quiet.
He laughed awkwardly.
“Of course. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
She turned back to me.
“Go on, sweetheart.”
I finished my answer.
It wasn’t a dramatic confrontation.
No one stormed out.
Nobody apologized.
But when I left that evening, Nana walked me to the door.
“You don’t have to keep proving you’re worth listening to,” she said.
I tried to smile.
“I know.”
She studied my face.
“No. I don’t think you do.”
I carried those words for years.
Eventually, Nana moved into an assisted-living facility.
Her knees had become unreliable, and maintaining her house was more work than she wanted.
My father immediately described the move as evidence that she was losing her mind.
