I grew up with a mother who wallowed in self-pity, yet I viewed her life as charmed, without major financial concerns, and surrounded by those who loved her and cared for her. She was taken care of by my father and her own mother, who spent every day at our house. When Nana Bea wasn’t helping with dinner preparation and anything else that was needed, she rested in the down-feathered green armchair next to my mother’s king-sized bed. The piece of furniture was inhabited by my grandmother during the day and my father at night, before he went to sleep and after his return from his 12-hour day at the family’s custom shirt factory. It was as if my mother had two shifts of caregivers. “Ma needs a lot of rest,” my father frequently stated, as if to give a reason why a woman in her late 40s needed to spend most of her days in bed.

My grandmother’s boundless energy mirrored my own, and I was amazed that while her daughter lay under blankets, Nana was often out and about. She drove me to her apartment building that she managed, to the market to select, one by one, her favorite string beans, and to the shopping center, all with a smile and a San Francisco story to share. Most of all, I never remember Nana complaining about anything in her life: the loss of her husband from a sudden heart attack at 59; choosing to live alone the rest of her life; and having to take daily

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