The first thing my grandmother asked after I told her I’d bought back her old house wasn’t whether the porch was still there. After almost a full minute of silence, she didn’t ask about the apple tree Grandpa had planted.
My grandma didn’t even ask whether the living room still had the fireplace. She asked about the basement.
She didn’t ask about the apple tree.
« Honey… I never expected to hear this. Tell me, you didn’t open the basement door, did you? »
I stood on the front porch, my phone pressed to my ear. Behind me was the house I’d spent years hoping I could one day give back to her.
I’d expected tears, maybe laughter. Maybe one of Grandma Evelyn’s speeches about not spending money on her.
Instead, I got a question about the basement.
I’d expected tears.
