“Whose truck is that?” “A friend’s.” Grandma plops down at the kitchen table. “Which friend?” Mom closes the door and hobbles over. “Just a friend.” “How many friends do you have these days?” “I don’t know, Kathleen, a few,” Grandma says, exasperated. “I’m a likable person.” “Wouldn’t know what that’s like,” I quip. She puts a soft hand over mine. “Better to be interesting than likable, in my opinion.”
