We always used to talk about science, whatever we’d run into that was new and interesting. One time—I forget the context—I brought up the then-new research indicating that womb conditions after having multiple boys seem to have a tendency to trigger genetic preconditions that cause a boy to be gay. Grandma misunderstood what I was saying, and thought that I was implying that being gay was a choice, and she laid into me, because it sounded like I was saying the sorts of things she’d heard about her son from friends, family, and acquaintances for years. Her Donny was a gift to her, and she was going to spit furious fire at anyone who tried to imply otherwise. Or even anyone who, as I did, just sounded like he was trying to imply otherwise.
I eventually convinced her that I was on her side, and that I would never say anything like what she thought I had, but it was a perfect illustration of the fierce and protective way that she could love. There was no hesitation, and I have no doubt that she has launched the same salvo at dozens of people over the years. It was too practiced to be anything but a common occurrence.