I am fixated on getting a four-generation photo. I spend late nights scheming about how I could persuade the hovering nuns of her senior complex to make just one exception or how I might sneak my dad and my baby over a fence and through a hedge three states away to my Grandma’s tiny back terrace. I worry that I may never share my newborn daughter in person with my grandmother. We considered naming this long-awaited baby Molly — or Mary, as only the nuns call her — in grandma’s honor. We ultimately selected Neve, a phonetic version of the Irish […]
The full content of this post is available to subscribers. Subscribe now or log in!