« Trust me, dear. I have an eye for these things. » She stood back, admiring her handiwork while I watched helplessly as my coffee table now blocked the hallway. « Oh, and you really should prune those roses. They’re looking rather… wild. »
Wild? Oh, yeah! My prize-winning roses that I’d spent three years nurturing were apparently… wild.
Meanwhile, her daughters, Sarah and Kate, had already claimed my kitchen island as their personal command center, spreading their kids’ snacks across my clean counters like they were marking territory.
Six grandchildren under the age of 10 descended upon my house like a plague of locusts, leaving juice box carnage in their wake.
« Where’s the bathroom? » eight-year-old Tyler demanded, dripping popsicle onto my white carpet.
« Down the hall, sweetie, » I said, already reaching for the carpet cleaner.
« Why don’t you have good snacks? » his sister Madison whined.
The good snacks. The ones they never brought. The ones that somehow materialized from my grocery budget every single time.
« Annie, the meat looks a bit dry! » Juliette called from the patio. « Are you sure you’re not overcooking it? »
That evening, after they’d finally left, taking nothing but full bellies and somehow forgetting to take their trash, I found myself picking popsicle sticks out of my flower beds while Bryan loaded the dishwasher.
