“Nan” by Liz Ross (Fiction ’22)

Nan

The table was set with the good dishes and silver, the settings Nan used for holidays. There were Easter Bunnies embroidered onto the carefully-folded napkins, sliced lemon in the water glasses. Tulips drooped over the sides of a crystal vase. On the tray attached to the baby’s highchair was a basket filled with chocolate eggs and jelly beans.

“The baby can’t eat candy,” I said. “I told you.”

The baby didn’t have teeth, was practically still bald at three months old.

Nan looked down her nose at me, like a librarian who’d caught me pulling pages from a book.

“Every child loves candy,” Nan said. “Every mother knows that”.

Nan raised two kids of her own, the baby was my first, which made me the rookie.