152/365 01/20/2026

“The men,” she said, “Will tell you things.” 

We children—we girls—gathered on the woven rug around Gemma’s feet. She was old. Knuckles like cypress knees and mouth wrinkled and soft as prunes. But her eyes shown bright in the evening dim and the reflected hearth fire danced across her pupils.

“But the things they will tell you are not the things you need to hear.” She leaned down close, and we held our breath. “They may be what you want to hear, but sometimes,” she said, “Most times, the men will just tell you what they want to hear themselves. The things that make them feel more like men.”