This weekend, I lost my grandmother. She had a huge impact on my work, and I know many of you are familiar with her story and how close we were. My grandmother survived a war and a revolution and a pandemic. She moved to New York City when I was born to help raise me. We’ve eaten dinner together every Sunday since. When I was little, she would read to me while playing with my hair. She could devour a book a day. She gave me her love of literature and her sweet tooth and her cheekbones. A week before she passed, she finally saw my debut novel in stores. It was the first book she’d read in five years and the last she’d ever read. She thought it was too long and advised me cut down the curse words. I loved her more than I can put into words, which, as a writer, she’d find unimpressive. The best parts of me are her and I’ll miss her in every quiet moment of every day.