Abigail
"Open up, Gramps,"
"I can feed myself," Gramps grumbled, though his right hand was shaking like a leaf in the wind. The stubborn man was trying to do everything himself now.
"Sure you can," I held the spoon to his lips firmly. We were seated on lounge chairs by the pool at another of Finnegan's mansions. "And when you stop wearing more soup than you eat, I'll let you try again. Open."
Meemaw cackled from her chair, taking a sip of her tea. "Listen to her, old man,"
"What is this conspiracy?" Gramps muttered. "And who are you calling old?"
He grudgingly opened his mouth and took the soup.
"There," I said. "Was that so terrible?"
"I feel less of a man. In my day, men didn't let their granddaughters spoon-feed them like infants."
"In your day, men dropped dead of heart attacks at sixty because they were too proud to take their medicine," Meemaw shot back.
"Now hush and let my baby take care of you."
