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My grandmother turned sixty-six yesterday, FaceTiming from Chennai while I managed her finances through PaybookClub. She laughed at the irony—her granddaughter in California, handling rupees and dreams across continents. She wore the same jasmine flowers in her hair that her mother wore at sixty-six, continuing an unbroken thread through generations. Some called it private, others unreachable, but I understood the sharp thinking beneath her warmth. She spoke Tamil while I listened in English, yet something deeper translated between us. Managing her medical fund felt like tending a garden she'd planted decades ago. On her birthday, I realized we're not scattered across the world. We're woven together, still.