Olivia’s not even here yet and she already has my brain scrambled. I need some air. I throw on a T-shirt and shorts and grab my running shoes then head toward my door.

I poke my head into Po Po’s room to make sure she’s resting comfortably before I head out. Po Po is my maternal grandmother. She has Coronary Heart Disease but we thought she was managing that well with a heart-healthy diet, medications, and exercise. Then, she had a stroke two years ago and my parents and I decided it was best she didn’t live alone anymore.

My parents would never put her in a nursing home; it’s just not how either of them were raised. My paternal grandmom passed away when my dad and aunt were just teenagers, so I never met her. But their dad took on the care of his late wife’s mother until she passed, because he couldn’t stand the thought of putting her in a home even though she wasn’t blood. Blood doesn’t always make family.

My dad spent my whole life working sixty-plus hours a week as an anesthesiologist, and my mom worked her ass off to get her accounting firm off the ground. They did all this while making sure Kylie and I received equal amounts of love and attention. They had finally gotten to a place where Dad dialed back to a normal forty-hour workweek and Mom’s firm ran like a well-oiled machine so that they could take vacations and enjoy the life they built. I couldn’t let them give that up, especially knowing what I knew, so I volunteered to have Po Po stay with me. I can’t be with her twenty-four-seven, but I have a nurse, Lily, come in to check on her and administer her medications while I’m at work.

Po Po used to be one of my favorite human beings on the planet. That is, until I found out that she heavily objected to my mom, her Chinese daughter, marrying my Black father. I don’t know the full details of how my dad came into that information but the implication was clear. How could she claim to love me when she didn’t accept half of me? I never confronted her about it, but the discovery changed our relationship forever.

Sometimes, the resentment I feel toward her is so heavy I don’t think I can carry it, but I have no choice now. After her stroke, her speech recovered for the most part, but she still struggles to get her words right from time to time and the stress from that aggravates her CHD. What good would it do to confront a sick old woman about how deeply she hurt me?

I quietly close Po Po’s door and make my way outside. The bullshit starts to melt away with every crack of the concrete beneath my feet. I can’t hear anything but the music in my earbuds and my harsh breaths. I can’t see anything but the beautiful buildings in my neighborhood. I can’t feel anything but the vibration of my bones.