It happened during a backyard barbecue on a sweltering Sunday afternoon. The grill smoked heavily, my father pretended to oversee the burgers, and my mother sliced watermelon at the patio table as if nothing in the world could disturb her calm. My younger sister Chloe was late, as usual. My grandmother Evelyn sat beneath the shade umbrella with a plastic cup of lemonade, louder than anyone else after half a glass of sangria. It was supposed to be one of those forgettable family afternoons people photograph and call a blessing.
Then Grandma lifted her cup and smiled at me.
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