I always thought of myself as “the responsible one” in the family — the person who remembered birthdays, knew everyone’s medications, and kept track of who liked sugar in their tea and who didn’t.
So when my Nana turned 80 and started slowing down, it felt natural that I’d be the one to step in.
I did her groceries. Sorted her pills into those little plastic organizers. Paid her bills online because the paper ones stressed her out. I fixed her TV when the remote “stopped working” (it never stopped — the batteries did). It wasn’t a burden. It was just… what you do for the woman who once hand-washed your socks and snuck you candy when your mom said no.
Then one afternoon, everything shattered over a single sentence in a notebook.
I showed up like always, with a bag of groceries on my arm.
“Hi, Nana!” I called as I let myself in. “I got your cereal and those cookies you—”
She was sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, jaw locked. No knitting, no TV humming in the background. Just her, stiff and tight, a notebook open in front of her.