After I finished talking for the third straight evening about eating habits at night with my adoptive grandmother – one shouldn’t eat anything more than an apple, she says – I retired to my room to check my emails. I could hear her in her room moving her clothes into the new armoire, still talking – simply narrating the things she was thinking. I began to half-listen. They were mundane things, quietly filled with desperate importance. What could I do? Moving into our house after living so many years alone must have come hard to her, and she knew her age.
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