GRANDMA ROSE’S younger brother Leonard was murdered thirty-seven years before I was born. As a child I was often told I resembled Leonard, which was meant to explain why Grandma didn’t take much interest in me. My father’s mother was a stern, often judgmental woman, and I was scared of her. Proudly self-sufficient, she worked from sunrise to sunset, perpetually cleaning, cooking, and washing clothes, and her large hands smelled strongly of bleach. She didn’t give hugs or believe in celebrating birthdays or Christmas. Once, she used her cane to knock a stray cat from the porch. I tried to steer clear of her, which wasn’t easy, since she and my grandfather lived right next to us.