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.
One day I was sitting there listening to the VCR rewind for what felt like four business days, and I said, “You don’t have to buy these anymore.”
She looked up.
“I’ll make them for you,” I said. “You’ll just get them from me.”
Long pause.
“How would you do that?” she asked. “You can make those?”
The shock on her face was subtle but very real. As if I had just announced I could build a rocket in the garage.
I smiled.
Because I am not about to explain formatting software, layout design, large-print specs, and Amazon publishing to someone who still believes the inter web is suspicious.
She immediately offered to give me some of hers.
“So you can see how they look,” she said.
Translation: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t tell her I already knew how they look.
I smiled and took them.
She nodded hesitantly. Like this arrangement might be acceptable. Like I had possibly, finally contributed something useful.
But I could still feel it.
That tiny flicker of doubt.
We’ll see if she can actually do this.
So I went home and made them.
Better.
Large print that doesn’t make you squint. Cleaner layouts. Words from her era. Music she actually knows. Themes that feel familiar instead of confusing. Sudoku that challenges without frustrating.
The first time I brought one to her, she held it quietly.
Turned it over.
Flipped through the pages.
Inspecting.
Testing.
No big reaction. No dramatic praise.
Just a small, thoughtful “Hmm.”
She started the first puzzle immediately.
No commentary. No ceremony.
Just pencil to paper.
And when she finished, she pressed that circle down hard — like she always does — and gave the tiniest nod.
That was it.
But I saw it.
She trusted the book.
Maybe not me completely.
But the book.
And that was enough.
So I keep making them.
She will never have to buy another puzzle book again. As long as I can create them, she’ll have them. Word searches by decade. Classic themes. Sudoku. More coming.
What started as something small for her became something bigger.
Because I realized she’s not the only one who needs this.
There are so many parents, grandparents, spouses — people whose worlds have gotten smaller — who don’t want to feel managed.
They want to feel capable.
They want something that respects the mind that’s still very much alive.
That’s why I turned them into books.
Not busy work.
Not filler.
But puzzles made with dignity.
If you have someone in your life who loves word searches or Sudoku — or if you’re that person — you can find my books in my Amazon shop below.
Every purchase helps me keep creating more. More decades. More themes. More large-print options. More books that say, “I see you. You’re still sharp.”
And every time I walk into her room with a new one in my hand, she adjusts her glasses, takes it from me, and says, “Good.”
Which, coming from a 93-year-old woman who still rewinds her own VHS tapes?
Is basically a five-star review.
Amazon: Amazon Shop
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