“Trust me, dear. I have an eye for these things.” She stood back, admiring her handiwork while I watched helplessly as my coffee table now blocked the hallway. “Oh, and you really should prune those roses. They’re looking rather… wild.”
Wild? Oh, yeah! My prize-winning roses that I’d spent three years nurturing were apparently… wild.
Meanwhile, her daughters, Sarah and Kate, had already claimed my kitchen island as their personal command center, spreading their kids’ snacks across my clean counters like they were marking territory.
Six grandchildren under the age of 10 descended upon my house like a plague of locusts, leaving juice box carnage in their wake.
“Where’s the bathroom?” eight-year-old Tyler demanded, dripping popsicle onto my white carpet.
