October 26th is my brother’s birthday. This year, it marked his 15th revolution around the sun. It also marked two revolutions since the last time I spoke to my grandma. I was at the kitchen table, knees propped up, a bowl of ramen cooling in front of me. She called to wish him a happy birthday, of course. Second to hold my dad’s phone, I followed routine, hi-grandma-I’m-good-how-are-you, before sliding my phone across the table, notes app open: “Can I ask about Biden?” My dad shrugged, gave a half nod. I don’t regret what followed; silent tears, a phone snatched, shouting in another room, an abrupt hang-up. I had to know.