I interrupted a pillow fight with my niece to point at the picture of my sister on the mantel, the high school portrait in the false velvet top they made us wear.
“There’s your mom,” I said, and then I pointed at the picture of my mother in her nursing uniform. “There’s your mom’s mom,” I continued and then I pointed at the wedding photograph of my grandmother, a black and white photograph that had been tinted by hand. “And there’s your mom’s mom’s mom.”
“That’s too many moms!” my niece shouted, laughing as she hit me with a pillow.