“Hey, Casey!” my youngest says to me. “I’m playing a game about World War II! I know how you like World War II!”

My eyebrows shoot up at this and I freeze in the kitchen, Triscuit in hand.

Me? I like World War II? Not me. He must have me confused with my father. Old men read books about World War II. Dads and grandpas know the important dates and players. This is not a thing for a charming, middle-aged woman like me!

My eyes travel back to the kitchen counter where my latest pick from the library is waiting, Embracing Defeat: Japan in the Wake of World War II. And wasn’t it just last week I was watching a documentary and when they noted the date September 1, 1939, I knew exactly what major event they were referencing without looking it up?

Yes. Yes, that was me. Clever, attractive, middle-aged woman that I am. It’s me, hi, I’m the one who is into World War II now. I can already see the thick, dry non-fiction books that they will gift me on future birthdays. The texts they will send when me when they are studying for their college course on 20th century European history. And after I die, they will hear mention of World War II and they will sigh and turn to their own kids and say, “you know your grandma loved World War II.”

Dear God what have I done.