The kettle hums softly behind me in the cramped kitchen, a familiar background to my lazy Sunday afternoon.
I’m standing by the stove, contemplating the simple pleasure of a warm meal when the door swings open, and my grandmother steps in, unannounced.
Her presence, so sudden yet not unexpected, carries the weight of generations.
She’s only two blocks away, a constant figure in my life, yet her arrival always stirs something within me.
Today, it’s not just the surprise of her visit; it’s the quiet authority she carries.
“You’re boiling them all wrong,” she declares, eyes sharp as she takes in the scene.
The words hang in the air, more than just culinary advice.
I turn to face her, trying to mask the unsettlement creeping up.
“What do you mean?”
She moves with purpose, reaching for the dull aluminum pot that sits on the stove.
