My son removed me from the family group chat on a Tuesday afternoon.

That was the kind of sentence I never imagined I would have to say out loud at seventy-six years old. It sounded small, almost foolish, like something a teenager would cry about behind a locked bedroom door. A group chat. A little square icon on a phone. A few names and photographs tucked into a screen I still had to hold too close to my face because the letters had grown smaller with the years.