she had turned my gift into a boarding house for strangers. The living room, once my sanctuary, now housed bunk beds for backpackers. My daughter, beaming, explained: “We’re Airbnb-ing it! The income pays for our honeymoon fund.”
I stood amid the chaos—my grandmother’s china used as cereal bowls, my study a yoga studio for influencers. “But this was your home,” I whispered.
“It’s an investment now,” she said, handing me a keychain shaped like the apartment. “You gave us a future.”
That night, in the cottage with my sister, I unpacked one box: my old photo albums. She poured tea. “You gave her roots,” she said. “She grew wings.”
Next morning, I returned. The apartment was spotless, strangers gone. My daughter hugged me. “We kept your room exactly as it was. For when you visit.”
I laughed through tears. The cottage felt smaller, but warmer. My sister and I planted roses out front. The apartment? It funded their first child’s college fund. And every summer, I stay in “Grandma’s Room,” surrounded by new memories layered over old.
