“What does it feel like to be completely useless?”…

The overhead light cast a soft glow over the long dining table, gleaming off the good china Iris insisted on using for “family nights.” Someone’s phone buzzed and was quickly silenced. The television in the den murmured faintly with the sound of an NFL game, turned down low out of respect for “quality time.”

I was seated at my usual spot near the end of the table, a place that had become my comfortable perch for observing, for listening, for being present but not entirely seen. My plate was a landscape of half-eaten food and unspoken thoughts.

I’d nod and smile at the appropriate moments, a quiet participant in a play I’d been acting in for years. Caden, my son, sat near the head of the table, one seat down from Iris, who had claimed the chair beside him the way she’d claimed so many other things over the years—with effortless certainty. My grandson scrolled on his phone beneath the table when he thought no one was looking.

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