My 93-Year-Old Mother-in-Law Still Uses a VCR—And She Accidentally Inspired My Puzzle Book Business

Let me paint this for you.

My mother-in-law is 93.

Not cute 93. Not “aww she’s so sweet” 93.

Ninety-three with strong opinions. Ninety-three with a memory like a steel trap. Ninety-three with the posture of someone who survived actual world events and therefore does not care about your Wi-Fi issues.

She lives in assisted living, which still feels slightly illegal in my Filipino bones. In my culture, you take your elders in. Everyone under one roof. Privacy becomes a group project.

But she didn’t want to live with us.

She said it was for our privacy.

Which is generous.

But let’s be honest — it’s hers.

She’s French Canadian turned American. Independent in a way that doesn’t ask permission. She likes her quiet. Her routine. Her space. She didn’t make it to 93 by sharing a kitchen with anyone.

So she chose assisted living.

And she chose it on her terms.

She has one son — my husband.
One grandchild.

And then there’s me.

She doesn’t openly dislike me.

She just… evaluates me.

Sometimes she asks my husband, “How is she doing?”

And I can’t help but imagine the rest of the sentence floating in the air.

Oh. She’s still there? They’re still married? Well alright then.

It makes me laugh. It keeps me humble.

Now let’s talk about how she lives.

She does not stream.

She does not log in.

She does not subscribe.

She watches movies on a VCR.

Yes. A VCR.

I don’t know where she got it. I don’t know how it still works. But when that thing rewinds, it sounds like it’s preparing for takeoff. The whirring fills the room like it has something important to prove.

And music?

Vinyl records.

Not because it’s trendy. Not because it’s aesthetic.

Because that is the correct way to listen to music.

She lowers the needle with surgical precision. The soft crackle starts. Frank Sinatra fills the room. No Bluetooth. No algorithm. No “suggested for you.”

Just music. Real, warm, slightly scratchy music.

She calls my cellphone “that magic box.”

She calls the internet “the inter web.”

She trusts neither.

Tax season comes around and she gathers her documents, smooths them carefully, slides them into an envelope, and mails them to her accountant.

Her accountant is retired.

Retired-retired.

But every year those papers travel through the U.S. Postal Service like it’s 1962 and nobody has invented email.

“It’s safer,” she says.

I used to argue.

Now I don’t.

Because here’s what I’ve realized.

When your body starts taking things away from you — driving, balance, total independence — you hold tighter to what feels solid.

Paper feels solid.

Vinyl feels solid.

A VHS tape you can rewind yourself feels solid.

And then there are her puzzles.

Stacks of them.

Word searches. Crosswords. Sudoku.

When she leans over a puzzle book, something changes.

Her back straightens. Her eyes sharpen. She doesn’t want help. She doesn’t need help.

It’s just her and the page.

And she is powerful.

I’ve watched her circle words with firm, deliberate pressure — like she’s stamping proof of life.

I am still here.
I still think.
I still win.

The Things I Stopped Apologizing For After 50

Somewhere along the way, I realized I say sorry too much.

Sorry to bother you.
Sorry for the late reply.
Sorry to ask.
Sorry for existing with needs.

I don’t even know when that started.

Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s being Filipino. Maybe it’s being Asian. Maybe it’s being a woman. Maybe it’s all of it mixed together like pancit noddles at a family party.

We apologize before we even speak.

“Sorry ha…”

For what?

Breathing?

Taking up space?

Having an opinion?

I used to apologize even when someone hurt me. I’d soften my tone. Shrink my reaction. Make it easier for them to not feel uncomfortable about what they did.

That stopped.

You Only Miss It When It’s Gone

I’m Chinese Filipino. Chi-noy for short.

Which means I grew up celebrating Chinese New Year like it was louder than Christmas and more chaotic than any birthday party combined.

It wasn’t just a holiday. It was an event.

It was cymbals clashing so loud your chest vibrated.
It was drums pounding like the whole barangay (small community) shared one giant heartbeat.
It was the smell of firecrackers lingering in the air for days.
It was grocery stores packed with people fighting over thirteen round fruits like prosperity would evaporate if you only bought twelve.

Round fruits mean wealth. Because coins are round. And if you’re going to manifest abundance, you might as well do it with citrus.

Every mall was red. Every hotel was red. Even the tiny stores with flickering fluorescent lights were red. Lanterns everywhere. Decorations everywhere. It looked like the color red personally sponsored the country. You didn’t need Chinese blood to celebrate. The whole country claimed it.

Dragon dances would snake through mall corridors. The dragon would bow dramatically at each shop entrance, and the store owners would slip red envelopes into its mouth. Even businesses barely breaking even would give something. You do not mess with luck.

If you’re not Chinese, you probably think red is automatically lucky.

Not exactly.

Real Chinese families know it depends on your zodiac sign, your element, the year, and how the stars are feeling about you. Chinese New Year follows the lunar calendar, which is why it falls somewhere between January 21 and February 20. It begins on the first new moon of the lunar year and the celebrations go on for fifteen days.

We also love reading our horoscope for the year.

And I mean love.

We would wait for the newspaper to publish the zodiac predictions. My mother would literally hand it to me and say, “Read yours. It’s a lucky year for you.”

If it said money was coming, we believed it.
If it said career success, we walked taller.
If it said romance, well… we pretended not to look too excited.

By midyear we didn’t even remember what it said.

But in January? That horoscope felt like a contract with the universe.

The Flowers I Never Got (And Why I'm Over It... Mostly)

Valentine's Day is coming, and I have complicated feelings about it. Not the angry kind. Not even the bitter kind. Just... the kind where you've lived long enough to know that the dream and the reality rarely match, and somehow you're okay with that.

I used to dream about Valentine's Day the way other girls dreamed about their weddings. Flowers. Chocolate. A card with actual words written inside, not just a signature. Maybe dinner somewhere nice. The whole romantic comedy package.

Instead, what I got was life.

The only Valentine's flowers I ever received in my entire existence came from my children. They were young. Working early jobs with practically no money. And they showed up with a bouquet they could barely afford, proud and a little shy about it.

I cried.

Not sad crying. The kind of crying that happens when you realize love shows up in ways you didn't script.

Let me back up.

Things I No Longer Feel the Need to Explain

Lately, I’ve noticed I’m explaining myself less. Not in a dramatic, I’ve-found-my-power kind of way. Just quietly. Like I forgot to give a reason and realized… nothing bad happened.

I say no without adding a paragraph. I leave without an excuse. I choose things without a backstory. And somehow, the world keeps turning.

This is new for me.

I used to explain everything. Why I was tired. Why I was leaving early. Why I didn’t want to eat that. Why I changed my mind. Why I didn’t reply right away. Why I needed time. Why I needed space. I treated every decision like it needed footnotes.

Now I don’t.

I no longer explain why I’m tired.
I’m past the age where exhaustion needs justification. I don’t need to walk anyone through my week so they’ll agree I earned it. I’m tired because I’m alive. That feels sufficient.

I no longer explain why I’m leaving early.
There was a time when leaving before everyone else felt rude, like I was breaking a social contract. Now I leave when my body tells me to. Dinner ends. Energy drops. I go home. No dramatic exit. No apologies.

I no longer explain my food choices.
I don’t explain why I’m eating salmon instead of steak. Or dessert instead of salad. Or nothing at all. I don’t owe anyone a breakdown of my health goals or a disclaimer about balance. I eat what I want. I stop when I’m full. This feels like progress.

I no longer explain my silence.
If I don’t respond right away, it’s not a mystery or a message. It’s just life. Sometimes I’m thinking. Sometimes I’m resting. Sometimes I just don’t feel like typing. All of those are allowed.

I no longer explain why I changed my mind.
This one took practice. I used to think changing my mind meant I was unreliable or flaky. Now I see it as updated information. I learned something. I adjusted. End of story.

I no longer explain my no.

The Older I Get, the Earlier Dinner Gets (On Aging, Love, and Boundaries)

I decided to be healthy in February the way I decide most things now, casually and without any long-term vision. Not a resolution. Not a lifestyle change. Just a vague intention to do better than whatever January was.

I had just celebrated my birthday a few days earlier, which at this age feels less like a milestone and more like a polite head nod to time. Like, yes, I see you. You’re still moving. I’m still here.

My kids did greet me. Eventually.

Birthdays are complicated now because of time zones. Some of them are a day ahead. Some are a day behind. Some are probably staring at the clock wondering if it’s too late, too early, or safer to pretend they already texted. I never know if a greeting is early, late, or being coordinated in a group chat I’m not invited to. At this point, I choose to believe the delay is due to global time differences and not selective memory. I choose peace. This is also part of being healthy.

For my birthday, I asked my husband if he could ski so we could spend the weekend up in the mountains.

For the record, I do not ski. I’m from the Philippines. We don’t have snow. We have heat, humidity, and sweating for no reason. Asking him to ski is my way of participating in winter culture without risking my life. I enjoy skiing the way I enjoy haunted houses. From a distance. Preferably indoors. With coffee.

In my head, the plan was perfect. I imagined waking up, sipping coffee with a view of Lake Tahoe, feeling inspired to write my next book. Taking breaks to wander through tourist shops. Walking all the way to the lake for the obligatory birthday selfie. Something like “54 and I still got it,” which is a lie I only believe when the lighting is good and my knees are cooperative.

I even planned dinner. Friday’s Station. Lake view. Sunset behind snow-capped mountains. The kind of birthday that sounds effortless when you describe it later.

This was the dream.

Reality arrived immediately and without apology.

I Tried to Declutter and Accidentally Audited My Entire Life

I started decluttering the way I do most things, confidently and with absolutely no plan. I told myself I was just going to clean one small area. One drawer. One box. Something manageable. Instead, I sat on the floor holding things I haven’t used in years, negotiating with myself like each object had feelings.

I don’t know why January does this to people. Every year, suddenly, we all decide we need to clean our lives. Reset. Purge. Become a new person with fewer possessions and better habits.

I never really understood the whole “spring cleaning” thing until I worked in retail here in the U.S. Probably because where I came from, seasons were not really a thing. I’m originally from the Philippines. Chinese Filipino descent. We don’t have winter or spring. We just have hot and raining. Sometimes both at the same time.

But anyway, back to decluttering.

I started with the things I brought back from my mother-in-law’s apartment. I told myself I was keeping them safe for her. Preserving them. Being responsible. Being thoughtful. And then, slowly, it dawned on me that she no longer cares about them.

Not in a sad way. In a peaceful way.

She already kept what mattered. The rest are just things that finished their job.

Which means now they are my problem.

I don’t want to throw them away. I want to donate them. Because another man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Also because I need to believe someone else will love these things more than I currently do.

For a brief moment, I thought about selling some of it.

This was my first mistake.

I tried Poshmark. People out here offering a dollar like I’m going to carefully package something, print a label, drive to the post office, and feel fulfilled for spare change. Excuse me, dear. At that point, I’d rather donate it and get a better tax write off and some peace.

Then I tried eBay. Which now feels less like a marketplace and more like everyone’s collective garage sale from the late 90s. No one knows what anything is worth. Including me.

And then there is Facebook Marketplace.

Facebook Marketplace is not for women my age. It is not for people who value safety, sanity, or sleep.

Bartering starts at 9 p.m. for reasons I will never understand. People message “Is this still available?” and then disappear like ghosts with commitment issues. Honestly, that part I can live with.

What I cannot live with is when they actually show up.

Sometimes they arrive in a car full of people. Why. Why are there four of you. Are you here to buy a lamp or overthrow a small government. Please just take the item and leave.

Sometimes they come to the house and start sniffing around instead of doing a quick handoff. Sir, this is not an estate sale. This is a transaction. Take the chair. Hand me the cash. Do not explore.

The entire time I’m wondering if the money is counterfeit and whether this is how I end up on the evening news for trying to sell a side table.

Once I decided to meet someone in a CVS parking lot because that felt safe. They ghosted me. I sat there like an undercover cop who forgot why she was there.

Anyway, where was I going with this.

Oh right.

Decluttering.

Or menopause.

Or capitalism.

One of those.

I completely forgot my point halfway through, which is apparently my new personality trait. Menopause brain does not gently fade things out. It takes the thought you were holding and throws it into traffic.