My parents looked like wonderful grandparents in photographs. My mother, Diane, knew exactly how to coordinate matching shirts, decorate birthday tables, and post captions declaring that family was her greatest blessing.

My father, Frank, could cook animal-shaped pancakes and spend an hour pushing grandchildren on the backyard swing whenever relatives were around. They loved appearing to be devoted grandparents.

The less visible responsibilities interested them much less. Medication routines. Bedtime anxieties. Remembering which child could not eat strawberries.

Listening whenever a child needed something inconvenient.

My sister Marissa’s children received most of their attention. Owen was nine, Natalie seven. They were energetic, noisy, hilarious, and completely used to every room adjusting itself around them.

Mia was different. She observed before joining. She could stay at the kitchen table drawing quietly for an hour. She asked permission before opening cupboards.