After I professed my arrant disgust of all men at the last family gathering, Grandma was convinced I’m a lesbian.
It’s been judgment and condemnation ever since.
Today I bring groceries and offer to cook her favorite: baked spaghetti.
She snatches the pot from my hand as I’m filling it with water, brushes past me to the stove muttering Romans 1.
“Speak up, Grandma.”
She switches her tone. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right man yet.”
As if Grandpa’s “other” daughter doesn’t live three doors down in Aunt Mae’s house.
“No man’s good enough.”
Surprisingly, to this, she agrees.