He built it after the business took off. Nothing flashy, but big enough that people whispered about how well he’d done for himself. A wide porch. Mature hedges. A backyard that felt like it could swallow a crowd without blinking. That house used to smell like cedar and peppermint tea and whatever strange polish he used on the woodwork. When I was a child, I associated it with safety—Grandpa’s voice, Grandpa’s hands, Grandpa’s steady presence.
Now it smelled like catered food and my mother’s perfume and someone else’s choices.
They all lived there now: Mom, Dad, Natalie, her husband. They’d settled into Grandpa’s house like it was a natural extension of their closeness. Their real family.
Roger and I had flown in from London the day before. I’d been asking for years when we could visit, and the answer had always been vague.
It’s not a good time. He’s not feeling well. Maybe next year.
