Grandmother, flipping through photos, lands on me and goes: "why do you look tired in every single picture?"

Ma'am. It's a 9-to-9. With a two-hour commute bolted onto each end. My face isn't a mood, it's a status report. That's not tiredness you're seeing, that's the physical residue of a lifestyle designed by people who've never met me.

I try to explain. The hours, the traffic, the soul-flattening metro rides. I make my case.

She hears all of it, waits, and then delivers, with total serenity: "in my time we walked to the fields and still smiled."

And I had nothing. No comeback. No rebuttal. What do you even say to that? She walked to actual fields. Did actual back-breaking labor under an actual sun. And came home smiling. Meanwhile I sit in air conditioning tapping a keyboard and look like I've returned from war.

I simply did not respond. Could not. I closed the photos app and quietly accepted defeat. The woman has receipts I cannot match. She wins. She always wins.