The third time, Lily asked if she really had to hug Grandma goodbye every time, and something cold slid through me then—but even then, I did what daughters like me are trained to do.
I minimized.
I translated.
I cleaned up the emotional mess before anyone else had to look at it.
My mother’s name was Diane Keller, and she had spent my whole life teaching me that the worst thing a woman could be was difficult. The second worst thing was ungrateful. If something hurt, you reframed it. If something frightened you, you found a reasonable explanation. If your own mother made your stomach knot before every visit, you reminded yourself that families were complicated and holidays were stressful and everybody had baggage.
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