Most of it happened at a table. Sitting beside grandmothers living with dementia, steadying a cup, folding paper, matching numbers on a card, I learned how much a single room can hold for someone whose world has narrowed to it. The chairs, the light from the window, the seat each of them returned to without being told: none of this was decoration. It was the ground their days stood on, and learning it had to come before any help I thought I was bringing. The warmth we passed across that table was never moving in one direction.