Marg was warmth in human form. She remembered birthdays without reminders, baked pies that filled the street with the smell of butter and cinnamon, and insisted on sending everyone home with leftovers—even if you’d already eaten enough for two days. Visiting her wasn’t just routine; it was grounding.
And then there was Bailey.
Bailey was her shadow—an aging golden retriever mix with cloudy brown eyes, stiff legs, and a graying muzzle that made him look perpetually worried. Every morning, without fail, he settled at her feet while she sipped instant coffee, watched the local news, and slipped him bits of toast like it was their shared secret. When I visited, Bailey greeted me as if I’d been gone for years, nails scraping across the linoleum, tail wagging with more enthusiasm than his joints could manage.
I was the grandchild who showed up regularly. Not out of obligation—but because I wanted to be there.
My cousin Zack was different.
Zack is 29 and technically an adult, though responsibility has never seemed to stick to him. He’s cycled through jobs the way other people cycle through playlists, always broke yet somehow always posting photos of new gadgets, rare sneakers, and nights out. Since we were teenagers, he’s taken more than he’s given—and somehow always landed on his feet.
Marg never held it against him.
She’d squeeze my hand and say softly, “Some people bloom later, Lily. Some just need a little more love than others.” She believed it, completely.
