I scolded Baby D, who wasn’t that much of a baby anymore. He was now four years old and was in preschool. “Oh, don’t fuss at the baby,” Nana said as she walked over to Baby D and hugged him. “You wouldn’t let us cry and whine when we were little,” my mother reminded Nana as she sat next to me on Nana’s flowery patterned couch. Three generations of women were in Nana’s living room as we prepared to go yard saling. Lynn didn’t come around much these days. She worked and went on trips with her girlfriends. Baby D was having a fit that I was trying to make him go to the bathroom before we left after he’d made several declarations that he didn’t have to go. “I did the best I knew how with what I knew then,” Nana told my mother with a hint of regret in her tone. “If I could go back and do things differently, I would.” I could see the sadness Nana was trying to hide behind her eyes. And I knew why too. I remembered growing up in Nana’s house while she was a single mother, trying to raise six kids.
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