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.
I cried for weeks.
Grandma Rose had left me some money, which I’d invested instead of spending.
Over the years, it had grown enough that I could finally afford to buy her house back.
For two days, Declan wouldn’t drop it.
I said I wanted to rebuild the porch.
“Do you know what lumber costs?”
“I’ve got an estimate.”
I spent every childhood summer in Grandma Rose’s house.
“Of course you do. And what happens when the estimate doubles?”
