We were at Island Beach State Park in New Jersey, which is more beautiful than people assume. Not all of New Jersey is ‘the armpit of America.’

My Mom and I had taken my nephew to the beach for the day. My brother probably had to work. My nephew was 5, which would have made my brother 26, me 28, and my mother 55.

My nephew wore bright red swim trunks that nearly slipped from his skinny body. He was all arms and legs, scrambling back and forth between the water and our beach towels, showing us tiny crabs, other small treasures.

He has my brother’s complexion, a beautiful caramel that deepens in the sun.

My mom decided he’d had enough sun and it was time for sunscreen. She beckoned him over, then squirted a puddle of the lotion into her palm.

“Give me your arm.”

He held out his arm and she grabbed it by the wrist, then slapped his arm repeatedly with her lotioned palm.

I watched him wince and struggle—caught between the desire to be obedient to his grandma and the desire to be free of her slaps.

“Mom, let me do that.”

I reached for the lotion. She let go of his wrist and he scrambled backwards.

I waved him over to me and he came slowly, cautiously. I don’t remember if I said anything, but as I lotioned his arm, my mom flinched and hissed, “You’re almost giving him a massage!”

I’m not usually one for a quick retort, but this time I had one:

“Being touched doesn’t have to hurt.”

I’m glad I saw this as an adult, glad that I could step in on behalf of my nephew. Glad I had a new view on all those times as a kid when I thought I was being too sensitive.

I wasn’t too sensitive.

My nephew is in his 40s, and he’s a really good dad. My brother is a good grandpa. All of us keep a close eye on my mother any time she wants to hold a child.

Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful for nectarines.