The grandmother keeps track of the tides in a spiral notebook she bought at the Dollar General. Not the official NOAA measurements—those tell you what's happening in the Gulf. She records what matters: which days the road floods, when you need the boat instead of the truck, which neighbors to check on first.

She's lived in this house on the bayou south of Houma for sixty-three years. Raised her children here, buried her husband here, watched the water creep closer every year. Her daughter moved to Baton Rouge after Katrina, got a good job, bought a house on high ground. Keeps asking when Mama's coming to live with her.

Mama's not coming. She's teaching her granddaughter—who moved back two years ago with a baby and no husband—how to live in a place that's disappearing.

The granddaughter works the morning shift at the seafood processing plant in Dulac. Some days she drives. Some days the road's underwater and she takes the boat. She's twenty-four years old and she already knows the difference between a tide flood and a rain flood, knows which trees mark the channel when everything else is underwater, knows that you tie the boat to the porch railing because the dock might not be there when you get back.

The baby is two. Too young to understand that the water is winning. Old enough to know that sometimes you wake up and the yard is a lake.

"People think we're crazy," the grandmother says. She's standing in a kitchen that's been in the family since before anyone kept records, watching her granddaughter heat up a bottle. "My other daughter keeps sending me real estate listings. Houses in Baton Rouge, houses in Lafayette. Like I'm gonna leave."

She's not leaving. Neither is her granddaughter. They're staying in a place they know won't last, teaching a child to love something that's already dying.

Nobody wrote down the curriculum. The baby learns to sleep through the sound of rain on the roof, learns that sometimes the truck won't start because the engine got wet, learns that home is a place you might have to leave in a boat. By the time she's five, she'll know which cousins live in which houses, which trees her mother climbed, which graves belong to which ancestors. She'll speak the Cajun French her great-grandmother insists on, not the textbook version they teach in New Orleans, but the real thing—the language that holds the jokes and the prayers and the stories about people who've been dead for a hundred years.

The granddaughter knows this. She's seen the maps. She knows coastal floods now happen three times more often than they did when her mother was young.

She also knows what gets lost when you leave. Her aunt's kids in Baton Rouge don't speak French anymore. They don't know how to read the water. They're safe, probably. But they're not from anywhere.

Last month the baby got sick and the road was flooded and the granddaughter had to take her to the clinic in Houma by boat. Took an hour each way. The grandmother sat in the stern holding the baby while her granddaughter ran the motor, and she thought about her daughter in Baton Rouge with her dry roads and her urgent care clinic five minutes away. Thought about calling her, telling her they were coming after all.

She didn't call. She held the baby and watched the water and thought about all the people who used to live along this bayou, all the houses that are gone now, all the trees that used to mark the channel. Thought about her granddaughter learning to navigate by landmarks that are slowly disappearing.

The baby got better. The water went down. They came home.

The grandmother makes another note in her book. The granddaughter goes to work. Through the window you can see the bayou, wider than it used to be, eating at the edges of what used to be solid ground. Tomorrow the tide will come in again. Tomorrow they'll still be here. Tomorrow the baby will learn a little more about how to live in a place that's trying to kill you, and love it anyway.

Maybe in twenty years the baby will resent them for this. Maybe she'll understand. Either way, she'll know who she is and where she came from. It might not be enough, but it's what they have to give her.