Truth.

Nobody tells gramma to wear a mask, because she will smile at you, pull a freshly baked batch of cookies out of her purse, sit you down in the corner on the nice cashmere chair so that you're comfortable, and spend the next three hours carefully and considerately explaining, loud enough for everyone to hear and nod along, a full dissection starting from your birth and ending now that clarifies exactly why and how you're such a useless fuck-up retard who wasn't worth even as little the leftovers that dribbled down her daughter's leg after the deed, but she still loves you anyway and you should write more often or maybe call once in a while.