Mom stepped inside and stopped.
The foyer alone had exposed beams, wide-plank floors, and a staircase restored from the original 1891 structure.
She carefully looked around.
“This is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
It was the first uncomplicated compliment she had given me since Thanksgiving.
For the next ten minutes, I showed her around.
The library.
The formal dining room.
The kitchen.
The screened porch.
The primary bedroom upstairs.
Then she asked to see the room where Grandma had stayed.
I led her to the first-floor guest suite with its wide doorway and accessible bathroom.
Mom ran her fingers across the wooden dresser.
“She liked it here?”
“She loved it.”
Mom sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time, she somehow looked smaller than I remembered.
Not weaker.
Just less certain.
“Your grandmother has complained for years that Melissa’s stairs make things difficult,” she said.
“I know.”
“I thought she was exaggerating.”
“She wasn’t.”
Mom looked toward the bathroom.
“We could have held Thanksgiving somewhere else.”
“Yes.”
“We could have rented a place.”
“Yes.”
“We could have asked you.”
“Yes.”
Every time I agreed, she looked slightly more irritated.
Finally, she said, “You could also have told us about this house.”
And just like that, we were back on familiar ground.
“I could have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I leaned against the doorframe.
“Because whenever I tried to talk about work, Melissa changed the subject to the kids. Whenever I mentioned investments, Dad joked that I was turning into a Wall Street shark. Whenever I talked about traveling, you said it must be nice not having a real family schedule.”
Mom’s expression tightened.
“I never said you didn’t have a real family.”
“You didn’t need to.”
She stood.
“So this whole Thanksgiving production was revenge?”
