“Then what? Are you planning to move us into that place?”
“No. I want somewhere we can spend weekends. Somewhere Owen can play outside.”
“And I want you to sell this shack.”
He left before I could answer.
“And I want you to sell this shack.”
Eleven years of marriage, and that was my reward.
I spent every childhood summer in Grandma Rose’s house. She taught me to bake apple pie. We sat on her porch for hours, and when it rained, we read under one blanket.
When she died, she left the house to her son, my uncle Frank. He sold it a month after the funeral.
I was nineteen and broke. I cried for weeks.
The new owners lived there for years. Last spring, they listed it.
