I hadn’t needed convincing.
I’m 65, and two months with my grandkids sounded less like a favor and more like winning something.
We baked cookies, walked to the park, watched movies on my couch, and debated whether popcorn counted as dinner.
Sophie talked enough for three people.
Ben was quieter and thoughtful, the kind of child who noticed when my grocery bags looked heavy and grabbed one without being asked.
That morning, I was making pancakes when Adam walked into the kitchen.
“Are they ready?”
“Almost. They need to eat first; you all do.”
Tara came in behind him and wrapped both hands around the coffee mug I handed her.
She looked tired.
Adam looked worse.
“How’s the house?” I asked.
“Getting there.”
“The kitchen floor finally done?”
Tara blinked.
“The floor?”
I turned from the stove.
“You said they were tearing it up.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.”
Adam cut in.
“It’s taking longer than expected. And the mess is unbelievable.”
