While my grandma Ovsanna was still alive, my parents and I would pop into her house on our way home from Tuesday night Bible study. She’d be nestled in her big boxy armchair covered with a patchwork of odd fabrics. My parents would sit in the dining room chairs neatly lined up in front of the window, while I’d perch next to her on a worn-out ottoman. In typical Armenian-grandma style, nothing in her kaleidoscopic tchotchke-filled house matched, but every hand-crocheted doily, porcelain figurine, and Bible verse cut out of a magazine was placed just so. And Nene would pretend not to notice if I got up to scavenge in her bread box (which never actually held bread) for nuts or homemade cookies.