I was about six years old, sitting at the big wooden dining table that only ever came out during holidays. The whole family had gathered—my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and of course, Grandma and Grandpa, who sat at the head like royalty presiding over their kingdom. The air was filled with the smell of roasted chicken and Grandma’s famous cornbread, and everyone was talking over one another in the usual chaotic, joyful way.

Somewhere between passing the mashed potatoes and Grandpa telling his same old story about getting lost on a fishing trip, I felt a sudden need to contribute something important. After all, I had recently learned that “family dinners are for sharing,” and six-year-old me took that rule very seriously. So I sat up straighter, cleared my tiny throat, and announced, “Grandma!

Should I tell everyone what you and Grandpa do when you’re both in your room?”The entire table went silent so fast you could almost hear the chairs stop creaking. Grandma froze with her fork midway to her mouth. Grandpa stiffened like someone had just called his name at roll call.