I grew up with my maternal grandmother. She worked nearby as a receptionist, and she would come home at lunchtime. My mother was a writer; she worked mornings in her bedroom up on the second floor. When she heard the front door open, my mother would stop her typing. She’d walk downstairs, past the paper bags of groceries my grandmother would have just placed on the kitchen counters, and begin to talk.
There is a vignette locked in my memory: my grandmother is washing the dishes with her
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