A place the grandchildren could cross into whenever they wanted.
A place I could return to when I wanted quiet.
A home.
My home.
The morning after I moved in, Emma knocked at 6:15.
I opened the door.
She was wearing pajamas and slippers.
“What are you doing here?”
She held up a mixing bowl.
“Pie.”
I laughed.
“It’s six in the morning.”
“You wake up at five.”
“Not anymore.”
She frowned.
“Why?”
I looked across the street.
Then at my new kitchen.
Then at my granddaughter.
“Because this house has different rules.”
She smiled.
“What rules?”
I thought.
Then said.
“Rule one.”
“Sleep until you’re done sleeping.”
She nodded seriously.
“Good rule.”
“Rule two.”
“Eat what you cook.”
“Even pie?”
“Especially pie.”
She grinned.
“Rule three.”
“No one gets treated like they matter less because somebody thinks they have less.”
She tilted her head.
“That’s a weird rule.”
