The whole yard smells like cider.
It is the house where my father died, in the downstairs bedroom, on a Tuesday morning in October, with my mother’s hand in his and the radio on low because he always said silence made a room feel empty.
It is not valuable in the way things are measured.
But I have spent 22 years making sure it stays standing.
Tyler is my only son.
He’s 31, smart, genuinely funny, and has his grandfather’s eyes and his grandmother’s stubbornness, which is a combination I’ve always found both charming and exhausting.
It is the house where my father died.
His fiancée, Madison, is organized and driven and has had the wedding planned in a binder since before Tyler proposed.
The binder had a budget of $86,000.
I am a retired schoolteacher.
