I always thought being “the responsible one” was just my personality, something built into me like my eye color or my loud laugh. In my family, that translated into being the walking calendar, the default problem-solver, the keeper of everyone’s secrets and prescription schedules. I was the one who remembered who was allergic to what, who hated mushrooms, who preferred tea over coffee, and which cousin would absolutely show up two hours late no matter what the invitation said. So when Nana turned 80 and started slowing down, it wasn’t even a discussion. Of course I was the one who stepped in. It felt like gravity. I started doing her grocery runs, picking up the same bran cereal she’d eaten since the 90s and the cookies she pretended not to like but always finished first. I sorted her pills into those little plastic organizers with compartments that snapped shut like tiny treasure chests. I paid her bills online because the stack of envelopes on her counter made her anxious. I synced her TV remote with the cable box whenever she “broke it,” which always meant the batteries had died or she’d hit some mysterious button labeled “source.